Returning Home
by hjohn302
Summary: Picking up directly where "Afghanistan Comes Home" leaves off, John and Sherlock go to Captain Evans funeral. Events escalate rapidly and suddenly Sherlock finds himself separated from John by thousands of kilometers, as his friend takes part in a special ops rescue mission. In Afghanistan. Where John had been shot. Rated for reference to torture. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: OK, here is the long awaited sequel to Afghanistan Comes Home. I had so many questions after the other story of what happened to Murray, and did he survive. Well this one picks up almost immediately after ACH. (I highly recommend reading that one first if you haven't yet, as this is based off of that one. You should be able to catch up, but just wanted to give you a heads up.)_

_There are a couple things about the time line here. I spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out the time line of the episodes. I used John Watson's blog (put out by the BBC) to narrow down the dates, and also borrowed some dates from Lady Sam Mallory (check out her writing… she is incredible!). The point being, from what I can tell there are about 3 months between The Hound and when Mycroft gave John the info about the assassins, the kidnapping case, the girl screaming, their arrest and escape, and Sherlock jumping._

_Two months prior to those events was when Moriarty's trial occurred (based on the timeline laid out for us in Reichenbach Fall). My two stories, "Afghanisan Comes Home" and this one "Returning Home," take place during that 2 month time frame. I thought a great deal about the timeline in this story and very carefully planned it out, so it would fit in the time I had. I made a couple of adjustments in ACH to make sure it fit. They don't affect the flow of the story if you have already read it._

_Hound- early March 2012_

_Moriarty trial- early April 2012_

_ACH- April 23-26, 2012_

_Returning Home- April 28, 2012- June 3, 2012_

_I won't say any more about that timeline until the very end of the story, because it would be spoilers for this story if I did. If you have any questions or want more information on how I came up with the dates, please message me and I will let you know._

_Thanks and enjoy the story!_

* * *

John finished speaking with Mrs. Evans, turned and spoke quietly to a couple of other fellow servicemen, then walked across the grass to where Sherlock was waiting for him. Unable to bring himself to say anything, he just nodded and they headed for the entrance of the graveyard.

John paused when he heard his name called, and catching the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, he turned. Straightening to attention, John saluted as Colonel Harrison approached.

The Colonel returned his salute. "At ease, Captain Watson."

Sherlock watched their interaction from where he'd stopped, several paces away.

"Sir," replied Watson, taking refuge in the military formality.

"Captain, I have a request. I have a car waiting for us at the entrance," stated Colonel Harrison.

John's shoulders stiffened slightly. His hands clenching into fists behind his back betrayed a sudden wariness.

"Where are we going, sir, if I may ask?" questioned Watson.

"You may," granted the Colonel, as he gestured for Watson to follow him. "We are going to meet with someone in the British Government. I have been told that at times he _is _the British Government."

Sherlock muttered under his breath as he trailed behind the other two men. John, ducked his head to hide a small smile at the sound.

Sherlock groaned, "I told my brother to leave us alone. At least for today. I'm sorry, John. I don't think I can prevent this kidnapping."

Colonel Harrison paused and turned to face Sherlock. "Oh, Mr. Holmes was quite insistent. Captain Watson isn't the only one being 'kidnapped' as you say. You are expected to accompany us."

"I see my brother often enough. I have no desire to see him today, thank you," responded Sherlock with distain.

"You might want to reconsider, sir. We both think that your eyes and abilities might be extremely helpful in what we are attempting," warned Harrison.

"What do you mean, Sir?" questioned John. His eyes focused intently on Col. Harrison as he watched him decide how much to reveal.

"Please, let's keep walking if you don't mind," Col. Harrison responded. "I would prefer to continue this conversation in the relative privacy of the car."

As more people from the funeral started approaching, the three men picked up their pace. Reaching the gate, they climbed into the waiting car. It pulled into traffic and Col. Harrison started speaking again without prompting.

"We have footage from the helicopters that came in to pull out the team when they were attacked. They have been cleaned up and enhanced as much as possible. Mr. Holmes is also pulling satellite surveillance during the time of the ambush and the surrounding twelve hours on either side of the attack."

"What we need are as many sets of eyes on the videos as possible to try to not only analyze what happened and went wrong, but also to attempt to determine where Wilkinson and Murray were taken."

"You told me that teams on the ground have been searching," exclaimed John. All military protocol suddenly dropped in the light of his concern for his friend.

"John, there have been. They aren't coming up with anything other than old hideouts and dead ends. The army is… uncertain… how many more missions they are willing to do, or men they are willing to risk to try to find them. I have convinced them to search for another week," Col. Harrison explained.

Sherlock watched as the Colonel gazed at John with deepening intensity.

"You _know_ how quickly the odds drop of finding them, alive or otherwise, after two weeks."

"And _you_ know they can survive longer than that. There are documented incidents." John's voice was fierce, before he turned to look out the window, attempting to compose himself.

Sherlock was unable to identify the emotions that had flashed across his friend's face before it was hidden from him. However, Col. Harrison's concern for John was obvious throughout their conversation. He continued to watch John with a worried frown, only turning away when he saw Sherlock looking at him.

Col. Harrison let the silence linger the rest of the drive to Mycroft's office. Sherlock didn't dare to break it. He knew enough to know that nothing he could say would make John feel better. John kept his face averted the rest of the ride, sitting straight and rigid, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

oOOooOOooOOo

Upon arriving in Mycroft's office, Sherlock was surprised to see it had been transformed. It almost looked like the army had invaded. Multiple large screens were set up around the room, video images looping on them. A large table had been moved in, upon which assorted maps of the area the ambush had occurred had been placed.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall by the door and observed as John and Col. Harrison approached Mycroft. Though John still seemed like himself, shooting him a brief smile when he noticed Sherlock watching him, a new layer was emerging. In full dress uniform from the funeral, his back ramrod straight, confidence radiated from him. His face was still too pale and drawn from the strain of the past several days, but his blues eyes were bright and alert, taking in all the activity going on around him.

Sherlock stalked across the room to the trio of men when he heard Mycroft state, "You haven't told him yet, have you?"

"No, sir. There wasn't the opportunity to say more than we needed both his and your brother's eyes on the footage we have." Col. Harrison looked slightly uncomfortable at the admission, but stayed quiet as Sherlock approached.

"There is quite a bit more to it than that, indeed." Mycroft gestured to some chairs grouped off in a corner of the room.

They took a seat, and Mycroft proceeded to explain.

"Colonel Harrison came to me requesting that I look into the issue of the capture of Wilkinson and Murray. To put it delicately, he felt the situation needed to be handled with more care and discretion, as well as a more comprehensive approach than it had been. I also have access to some resources that the army was unable to take advantage of."

Mycroft smiled slightly at John. "I am aware of some of your background, John, and your friendship with Captain Murray. I am assuming that you are willing to do whatever it may take to retrieve him."

John nodded sharply. "You assume correctly, Mycroft. What do you have and what do you need us to do?"

oOOooOOooOOo

With that statement, the four men got to work. Five hours later, both John and Col. Harrison had taken off their jackets, loosened their ties, and rolled up their shirtsleeves as they bent over the maps on the table, comparing them with the satellite and video feeds they had.

Sherlock actually managed to work with his brother without their typical sniping. Despite what others thought, he did know when to lay that aside. This was one of those times.

The satellites hadn't been perfectly in place at the time of attack, but were over the area about 45 minutes later. Analyzing the data and extrapolating which direction they would have moved after the attack, Sherlock and Mycroft were able to narrow down the most probable area the insurgents would have gone to ground with Murray and Wilkinson.

John stood in front of one of the large screens, ignoring the few other men and women who walked in and out periodically bringing more data. Slowly flipping through the satellite photos of the area, he stiffened and spoke with one of the men at the computer nearby. Slowly, though some of the resolution was lost, it became clear they were looking at a group of men on the move. Their location was such that it was highly likely they were the men they were looking for.

Events progressed rapidly after that and at the end of fifteen hours of non-stop work, they were ninety percent certain of where Wilkinson and Murray were being held.

John collapsed back in a chair and dry rubbed his tired face. Sherlock joined him, passing him a sandwich and cup of coffee. John thanked him and ate mechanically, as he watched people moving around the room, keeping a close eye on Colonel Harrison who was on the phone with his superiors.

"What are we waiting for? Why has everything slowed down now that we know where they are?" questioned Sherlock.

"Because things are going to start heating up on the ground over there."

Gesturing toward the table of maps, John stood, taking his coffee with him. Sherlock joined him as John pointed to one of the maps. A small area was circled in red.

"That's where we think they are being held. These blue dots in and around there are areas where we have some informants on the ground. We are waiting for some information from them before we take action. They will be able to confirm if there has been insurgent activity in and around this small grouping of mountains. There are many caves there, so we are hoping our informants will be able to narrow down which section seems to have the most activity. That is likely to be where they are," John explained.

"Once we have the information, we're better able to plan the team going in. Putting together the right people with the right skills, the size of the team, and the chemistry of the members of the team are essential in pulling off a successful mission."

John cuffed a hand through his hair. "We need all those things in place so we have a successful extraction without losing any more people."

"As our information flows in, we will be pulling men from multiple units and getting them to the forward base, closest to the location they are being held." John gave a grim smile.

Sherlock could see something in John's eyes that he didn't like. The normal warm blue had turned icy and calculating. They narrowed, and Sherlock could almost see the multiple scenarios running through his head.

John continued his explanation, unaware of what Sherlock was seeing. "Once we are all gathered, we will be able to plan our strategy and get everyone up to speed."

"John…" Sherlock fought against the sinking feeling in his stomach. "What exactly to you mean by 'we'?"

He watched warily as John sighed and looked around the room. "Come with me." Leading the way John sat down in a chair in a relatively secluded corner of the room. Sherlock sank into the one next to him, dreading to hear what he knew was coming.

"When you stepped out a little while ago, I asked Colonel Harrison for a favor. Harrison is leading the mission, going back for this specific mission before moving on to his new posting. They need a doctor and a sniper. Roberts has requested to go in as well. He was injured in the original capture, but it was minor and he has been cleared for full active duty again."

Holding up his hand to stop Sherlock from interrupting him, John continued. "I asked to be part of the mission, Sherlock. I spent considerable time in that specific area during my last tour there. It may have been close to 18 months since I've been there, but there were come particular things that occurred while I was there… they are classified, Sherlock… that give me unique expertise that I think would be helpful to the team."

"You… you can't do this, John. You're a civilian now. You can't just drop back into the war," hissed Sherlock, attempting to keep from drawing attention to themselves.

"I know." The calm of a difficult decision made was reflected on John's face. Sherlock felt things start to unravel. He tried to deny what that look meant, what decision his friend had made

"That's why I asked Colonel Harrison to work on it from his end. I then spoke to Mycroft and asked him to pull some strings and call in favors to get me reinstated, for the duration of this mission."

oOOooOOooOOo

John watched his friend with sad eyes, as Sherlock made a bee line for his brother. Though he didn't hear their conversation, he could imagine what Sherlock was saying about his brother's "interference" in something that wasn't his area. John watched Sherlock's countenance darken, and his eyes grow stormy as he realized he couldn't change the tide of events.

Refusing to make eye contact with anyone, Sherlock spun away from his brother. John braced himself as Sherlock came towards him, but Sherlock passed by without acknowledging him and raced out the door, slamming it hard behind him.

John slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes, supporting his head with one hand, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. Sensing someone standing close, he spoke without opening his eyes.

"Well that went as well as could be expected, I guess."

"I agree, Doctor Watson." Mycroft sank into the chair Sherlock had so recently occupied. "He is concerned. To be truthful, as far as I know, you are the first friend he has ever had."

John looked over at him in surprise. "Ever? No childhood friends, mates in school?"

"He was bright and energetic, full of laughter and very expressive when he was young. He was curious about everything, and I taught him as much as I could. When he was old enough to start schooling, our father had tutors come to the house. Around that time, Sherlock became more reserved. When he entered school, he didn't know how to adapt in social situations. He was teased and bullied and withdrew even further, divorcing himself from his emotions. When he went university, cruelty from classmates didn't get better, just more 'refined.' He's always walked alone, until now, John."

They sat in silence for a few moments, as John mulled over what Mycroft had shared. It was far more than he'd expected when he'd asked about Sherlock's previous friends. But it definitely helped him understand Sherlock's reactions better, which was probably what Mycroft had intended.

His thoughts were interrupted as Colonel Harrison approached them. The formality of his posture prompted John to rise to his feet and salute. His stomach tightened in anticipation of his next words.

Returning the salute, Colonel Harrison spoke. "Captain John Watson, I hereby offer you an official reinstatement to full active duty in the Royal Army Medical Corps, attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, for the duration the mission to retrieve Captain Murray and Lieutenant Wilkinson. Do you accept this charge?"

"With full knowledge and free will, I accept this temporary reinstatement, Colonel Harrison. Thank you, sir," John replied.

Exchanging salutes again, John remained standing as Colonel Harrison walked away. Seeing a movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to find Sherlock standing just inside the door to Mycroft's office. His face was pale and stricken with naked emotion before a mask dropped into place in an attempt to guard himself.

John walked over and grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket sleeve to keep him from fleeing the room again. Never taking his eyes off Sherlock, he called quietly over his shoulder, "Mycroft, is there a room where I can speak privately with Sherlock?"

"Yes. Down the hall to your right, the second door on the left."

oOOooOOooOOo

Entering the office indicated, John walked to the two armchairs facing each other. Sinking down in one, he pointed at the other one. "Sit down, Sherlock, before you fall over."

"I don't have to take orders from you, Captain," Sherlock sneered. "I'm not under your command."

This was more serious than he thought. "Sherlock, I'm not ordering you. I'm asking you, as my friend, to sit down and have a conversation with me."

Sherlock huffed, but sat in the chair across from him, his face a blank mask, radiating arrogance. But John knew it was covering a wide range of emotions, most of them stemming from fear.

"Sherlock, I have to do this. You know I have to do everything in my power to help Bill. If it were you out there, don't you know I would do the exact same thing?"

At Sherlock's obvious look of doubt, John shook his head, "I would do absolutely anything to get you back safely," John tried to explain gently. "You're my best friend."

Seeing that his words weren't getting through, John propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He only hoped Sherlock would store these words, these moments, in his Mind Palace to review later, rather than deleting them.

Sighing, he murmured, "I can't say anything to convince you that this is the right thing to do, or that I have to do it. If you don't want to see it, nothing will make you believe me."

John continued, his voice pleading for him to really listen. "Sherlock, I need your help and support despite whether you think it's the right thing or not. I know you can't come with me physically, but I need…" Sighing again, he stopped for a moment, attempting to marshal his thoughts. "I'm so tired and I need to sleep before I leave, but I need you to know…"

Here John paused again and said more fiercely, "I plan on coming back here, to London, to you and our flat, our life chasing criminals. All of that is my life now. Not the army, not anymore. This is an aberration, not a life change. Please, Sherlock. I…"

John's head dropped further as he ran his fingers up into his hair. His heart hurt for Sherlock. There was no other way to describe it. He wished he could reassure Sherlock somehow, as this was such new territory for his friend. But he didn't know what to say.

He was overwhelmed. He was concerned about his own abilities, and if he was ready for the mission or if he'd be a liability to the team…

His whirling thoughts were interrupted by a hand resting on his shoulder. He released the hold he didn't know he had on his own hair. John looked up to find Sherlock had pulled his chair close enough that their knees were nearly touching. He could see his friend struggling to put words to his thoughts.

Sherlock dropped his hand back to his own lap and cleared his throat. "I know why you feel the need to go and help find Murray. I can understand that… I think. But I don't see why they need you specifically. I am certain that out of the whole RAMC there is another doctor who could go, or another person with similar skills and qualifications to go instead of you."

John shook his head in frustration. "I wish I knew how much I could tell you. I have to err on the side of caution right now until I get specific clearance. There are things that I know, that happened while I was there, certain information I obtained, that are needed specifically for this rescue. Murray knows even more. He's not just a medic and sniper. He has to be rescued, before they either break him or kill him."

"Oh," breathed Sherlock. "Oh! You… gathered information, too. You said before you went into villages with Murray and that was what he was doing when he was caught."

John looked at him, feeling a quiet admiration for his friend's brilliance. "No comment."

Sherlock's expression warmed fractionally, and his own eyes reflected his pride in John. "I still don't like that you have to go personally."

"I know, Sherlock. But, I think that Mycroft has figured out a way that we can stay in contact with each other almost the whole time."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock's eyes brightened even more with interest.

"I didn't get the chance to tell you this before. Mycroft has a couple of mini cameras for Colonel Harrison and myself to wear on the mission. They will attach under the edge of our helmets, with a miniature mic that will attach to our helmet strap. The battery pack and transmitter fit under our body armor between our shoulders. It will feed up through a special satellite link and you will get the audio-video from us the whole time we are out on the mission."

"You won't be able to speak to me," warned John, "but you will be able to hear everything that goes on, and see what I see."

"Why can't it be two way audio?" pouted Sherlock.

"First, I'm not going to be able to concentrate with your constant remarks in my ear!" laughed John. "Second, I am going to be connected with Colonel Harrison via a personal role radio. He needs to designate commands to different people, and the whole team needs to know who is doing what and where at any given time. When he can't give verbal commands, we revert to hand signals," John explained.

"When I am in transit, and at the base, we will be able to text on our phones back and forth and keep in touch that way." John smiled as Sherlock's face lit up a bit more. "But, you have to be on your best behavior, because you are going to have to spend a considerable amount of time with your brother. We may have only an hour or less from the time we are notified to the time we leave the base. When either your brother calls or I text you, you're going to have to get here quickly."

Sighing, Sherlock rose from his seat, pulling John to his feet. "I suppose I can handle that. Though I don't know if Mycroft can. I may camp out in his office between now and when you start the mission."

John stifled a laugh as they moved through the hall back to Mycroft's office. "I'm sure he will appreciate the quality time with his brother."

"Oh no," Mycroft looked at them with a hint of trepidation in his eyes. "What is happening, dare I ask?"

"I'm not sure you want to know," replied John as he and Sherlock exchanged a glance. Pure exhaustion pushed them over the edge and they started giggling helplessly.

oOOooOOooOOo

"John, I cannot…"

"Mycroft. This is a way you can help me look after him while I'm gone. It's one person. One I trust." John looked at Mycroft fiercely. "He isn't going to take my absence well. You know that as well as I do, just from his reaction today."

"If you get caught with this… or if news of this mission leaks anywhere, at all, I will deny all knowledge of this conversation," Mycroft warned.

"Of course you will, Mycroft. I know how this works far, far better than you realize," replied John as he pocketed the device Mycroft handed to him.

Mycroft gave him a calculating look. "Interesting. I believe you just might." Mycroft started at John a moment longer. "You are full of surprises, Dr. Watson."

John just smiled, bid Mycroft goodbye, and turned to collect Sherlock from where he'd been pacing.

He and Sherlock left Mycroft's office and walked out onto the street as the sky just started turning gray with the impending dawn. Realizing that they'd essentially spent nearly a whole day and night working, John sagged slightly as his exhaustion caught up with him.

oOOooOOooOOo

After making it home and getting some much needed sleep, John felt nearly human again. Then he talked Sherlock into getting together with Greg Lestrade for dinner. Greg came over that same evening, bringing Indian take away with him.

Finishing his food, Greg looked between the two of them and asked, "Ok, what's up with you two. You are both so tense, you look like you can hardly sit still. What's happened?"

John gestured for Greg to sit on the sofa and settled in his own chair. As he did, he pulled a little black device out of his pocket and flipped it across to Sherlock who was perched on the back of his arm chair. Fielding it easily, Sherlock examined it, then smiled slightly before tossing it back to John.

John toggled a switch and set it on the table next to him. Explaining that it blocked all listening devices, he said, "What I am going to tell you is not sanctioned by anyone. I am going out on a limb here, because you need to know what's happening. But it can absolutely go no further. You can't tell anyone what we are about to share with you."

Concern radiating off of him, Greg nodded and promised not to say a word.

John proceeded to lay out all that had happened with his old team, Murray and Wilkinson's capture and the group being put together to go in after them. Then he dropped the bombshell that he was reinstated so he could go in with the team.

After Greg had recovered slightly, and John had answered his questions, he was able to lay out all that he thought was going to happen, from the timing of everything to the actual mission itself.

"I'm still not been given clearance to tell you why I need to be on the team, but I really needed you to know what was going on, Greg."

"Why?"

"Because of me," interjected Sherlock.

At Greg's puzzled expression, John laughed. "Only partially right, Sherlock. First, I want you to know where I'm going and what's happening. I can just imagine your reaction if something happened and you only found out after the fact. There would be some hell to pay."

"Second, I'm going to be gone probably a good solid two weeks, maybe just a bit more. It depends on the condition we find Murray and Wilkinson in. I'm staying with Murray until he's stable. It could be that he will have to stay at the forward base for a bit before he can be transported to Camp Bastion, where they have a full hospital."

"Oh no! You're leaving me alone with him?" mock-groaned Greg.

John laughed out loud at the expressions on both his friends' faces. "Yeah, sorry mate. All I'm asking is that you keep him busy enough that Baker Street is still standing when I get home!"

Greg burst out in laughter, joining John, and even Sherlock managed to chuckle a little, though he still grumbled that he wasn't a child and could be trusted to not burn down the place.

Later that night, when John walked Greg down to the door, he stepped outside with him for a moment.

"Hey, if anyone asks, just tell them I went to visit an old army mate of mine. You won't be lying, just stretching the truth a bit," John grinned.

"I can do that. But there's more isn't there?" Greg asked.

John nodded, his face growing serious. "He's not handling this idea very well. I don't want him to be alone. He may need to be left alone the first few days I'm gone, and then he will be holed up with Mycroft for the duration of the mission so he can watch the video feed they'll be getting from it. But after that, he may need someone to talk to. Or someone to press him to talk… or just to give him something to do… I don't know."

Greg put a hand on his shoulder. "I admire you for doing this, John. I'll hold things down here, so you still have something to come back to. I can promise you that."

"Thanks, Greg." Giving each other a rough hug and slap on the back they parted, and John headed inside, feeling as if a bit of the weight on his shoulders had been lifted.

oOOooOOooOOo

Three days later John found himself crossing between buildings at Camp Bastion in the Helmund Province, Afghanistan. Wearing the new boots and combat fatigues issued to him, the Osprey body armor, and helmet, John felt himself falling back into the familiar soldier mentality. Having his side arm strapped to his side and the long range sniper rifle over his shoulder helped as well.

He had worn his dress uniform on the way over, but that was now packed into his bag along with the few other items he'd packed. He was keeping his bag with him, because he wasn't going to be staying long enough at Bastion to even sleep.

He spent the morning and early afternoon in an out of meetings with superior officers before reacquainting himself with a few things around the base, including the hospital. By mid-afternoon he was at the airfield, waiting for Col. Harrison and Lt. Roberts.

Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, he set his duffle and rifle down at his feet and leaned against the wall. Pulling it out, he unlocked the screen and grinned looking at the hundreds of messages in the log between himself and Sherlock.

Pulling up the most recent one, John started chuckling.

**We are out of milk. S**

**What did you do with it? S**

**I just bought a carton for you before I left! How can you be out already? J**

**Maybe Mrs. Hudson borrowed it. I couldn't have finished it already. S**

**Where are you now? S**

**Waiting at the airfield to catch our ride to the forward base of operations to meet with the rest of the team. J**

**No plane this time. It's to be helicopters from here on out. Once we take off in about 20 min. I may not be able to communicate with you until this evening. J**

**How long will that be? S**

**About six to seven hours from now. J**

…

**You can keep texting me, just know that if I don't respond, that's why. Not because there was any trouble. J**

…

**Sherlock? J**

…

**All right. When I land at the base, I will shoot you a quick text that I've landed. But I won't be able to do much more than that until after meeting the team and finding out what's laid out for us. J**

John waited, this time allowing the silence between texts to linger longer than he had earlier. He knew this whole situation was hard for Sherlock to comprehend. Sherlock was so unused to real friends, he had difficulty with the concept that John could have other friends besides him, without jeopardizing their own friendship. That root of the insecurity seemed to bleed through all his texts.

John found himself having to constantly remind Sherlock that he was coming back home. Sherlock was under the impression that John would change his mind and decide to stay on in Afghanistan.

Finally his phone vibrated again.

**Would we be able to talk on the phone before you head out? S**

**I mean, not text. S**

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. This was new. Sherlock hated to talk on the phone. If at all possible he preferred to text. Opting for a bit of humor, he typed out a response and hit send.

**Are you or Mycroft going to foot the bill? J**

He could almost feel the eye roll half way across the world as he waited for the reply.

**I'll make sure my dear brother covers it. S**

John stifled a snort, having no doubt that at least some of their texts were being intercepted by said "dear brother."

**When should I call you? S**

**Actually, I will call you. I really won't know what my schedule is, or what is going to happen until I get to the forward base. J**

**I will text you first and try to give you a little lead time in case Lestrade calls you in for something. J**

**That won't happen. I have refused to take any cases for the next several days at least. S**

**Are you sure that's wise? Aren't you going to get bored? J**

**Not yet. S**

**Here comes my ride, Sherlock. Col. H and Lt. R are coming too. I will text you later. J**

**John… Good luck. S**

**Thanks. J**

**I **_**will**_** be all right. J**

With that, John put his phone on silent and stowed it away in an inner pocket.

oOOooOOooOOo

That evening, surrounded by the team he'd be going into the field with, John found himself impressed with the men hand-picked by Col. Harrison. Everyone on the team knew at least two to three others, so though it was newly formed for this mission, a strong feeling of camaraderie already flowed. They had listened to some general briefings that evening and enjoyed dinner (as much as could be enjoyed from the mess tent) together.

Now one by one, the members departed to write emails, have a last smoke or settle in for the night. John slipped out of the tent into the night air that was finally cooling off. He sent of a quick text to Sherlock to let him know he was going to find a quiet place and then call.

Finally settling down, he dialed his friend's number. After multiple clicks and a momentary silence, a light hiss started in his ear, then he heard it start to ring.

oOOooOOooOOo

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock." John was surprised how clear the connection was.

"My brother probably has something to do with it," stated Sherlock, reading his mind, even across all that distance.

John laughed lightly, then sighed as he settled down on the ground.

"Where are you?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm sitting on the ground, my back to a boulder, at the edge of the camp. And yes, I am within the borders of the camp and have my gun with me and have my body armor and helmet on."

Sherlock sighed at the other end.

"So, where are you? On the sofa as usual?"

"Actually, I am on my bed. I wanted privacy and am fairly certain Mycroft doesn't have a camera in here. I also switched on that device he gave you, to make sure that any bugs that are in here are blocked for the duration of our call."

Though Sherlock's words were normal, his tone sounded anything but. He was trying too hard, and it wasn't fooling John one bit.

"We haven't had an easy couple of weeks, have we?" John murmured, cutting right to the heart of the issue.

The line was silent for a moment before John heard Sherlock quietly reply, "No. We haven't."

"My sharing with you about my experiences over here and what happened at Baskerville bothered you more than you let on, didn't it?" John asked, though he was certain he knew the answer.

"Yes." Another quiet reply. "I didn't expect to have such a strong reaction. To any of it."

John stayed silent, knowing Sherlock needed the time to try to put words to emotions he rarely acknowledged he had.

"I… I have never had a best friend before. I haven't been concerned for someone in a long, long time." Sherlock's voice sounded smaller somehow.

His words confirmed what Mycroft had told him, but he knew that Sherlock needed to tell him in his own words. He also knew sharing something similar from his past might encourage Sherlock to open up a bit.

"I had a few people back in school and university, just mates to hang out with once in a while. Bill Murray was my first real friend… until you. He's my friend and you're my best friend," John stated, allowing no room for misinterpretation.

He heard Sherlock sigh in something that sounded very close to relief. John smiled as slowly Sherlock started to talk, opening up over the phone in a way he would've most likely found much more difficult if they'd been face to face.

As his friend talked a little bit about his past, John's heart ached for the young man who had been so misunderstood all his life. He'd been lonely and friendless. That had only started to change after he met John.

Now he was afraid he was going to lose John and didn't want to go back to being alone again.

Oh, Sherlock didn't say so, not in so many words, but rarely did the two friends find the need to say _every_ single thing. They were able to read the subtext, even when they were only connected by a phone call.

oOOooOOooOOo

John found he'd closed his eyes as Sherlock had been speaking. Opening them again, he glanced up and nearly gasped.

"John? What is it?" Sherlock's voice had a hint of panic in it.

"Oh, Sherlock. I forgot. I mean, I remembered the sky being brilliant here, but I forgot what it could look like at night."

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock, the curiosity growing in his voice.

"The stars," John gasped, in awe once again at the beauty above him.

"Describe it to me, John."

"Hmm? Really?" John was surprised by the request.

"Afghanistan was such a part of your life for so long, learning more about the place is like learning more about you, too. It helped form you," Sherlock explained.

John's face split with a wide grin. "Sherlock, that sounds strangely like it might be sent…"

"Shut up, John," interrupted Sherlock, the warmth in his tone belying the words just spoken.

John chuckled and shifted to stretch out on his back in the dirt and sand to better watch the stars. As he did, the words began to flow.

oOOooOOooOOo

Thousands of kilometers away, Sherlock rolled away from the pillow he'd been clutching as he talked to John about his past. He felt drained and exhausted from putting into words bits and pieces that he'd attempted to delete or file far away from the lit areas of his Mind Palace.

At the same time he felt relieved that he had made the effort. Surprisingly, it felt… good… to know there was someone he trusted who knew more about him than others did. And he knew that what he shared was safe with John.

When he asked John to describe Afghanistan, he could sense John's surprise and almost disbelief that he'd be interested.

He heard John shifting over the connection. Without knowing it, Sherlock mirrored his position, pillowing his head on one arm, staring up at his ceiling. Night not having darkened his room yet, as John was hours ahead of him now, Sherlock closed his eyes to better picture what John started describing to him.

For all he ridiculed John about his writing, he was gifted with words. Sherlock could feel the heat of the desert with the harsh jagged mountains rising out of it. The green stripe of land along the river valley and fields and fields of poppies were as fresh in his mind as if he were there in person.

Then John started describing the night sky. The black velvet expanse covered with brilliant pinpricks of light, unmarred by any pollution and the pale swath of light that was the Milky Way, all framed by the darker edges of the hills and rocks around him.

Then he heard John gasp again. "Oh Sherlock," he said for the second time that night.

"What is it? What do you see now?"

"The moon is starting to rise. It's orange, because it's still so close to the horizon. Its upper edge is just barely clearing the tops of the hills to the east of me. And it's just a sliver. I… I wish you could be here to see this in person." There was a plaintive note in John's voice.

"I know, but the way you've described it, it seems like I am. I can almost see it, which is rare for me, if you must know."

John giggled a bit, and Sherlock felt a chuckle of his own rumble in his chest.

Sherlock let a moment or two of silence pass, then asked, "Will we be able to talk tomorrow?"

He heard John sigh, and dreading the inevitable rejection, Sherlock tried to backpedal. "Never mind. We don't have to. It was just an idea…"

"Sherlock, no… stop," John interrupted. "I want to talk to you. It isn't that. Tomorrow we are going to be going through every scrap of Intel, all the maps, and sorting out all the plans, plus our own equipment. Then the plan is to rest as much as possible for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening."

Sherlock stayed silent, listening to John shift around again.

John's voice dropped lower and became much quieter. "We don't have an exact departure time, because it depends on the weather, cloud cover, enemy movement, and so many other factors. But the tentative plan is to take off tomorrow after midnight, so they can get us to the drop zone, and we can do the two plus hour march to get in place before it gets light."

"Oh…" Sherlock sighed with relief.

Then he shivered as the reality of what John was saying started to sink in. At first he thought it was because John didn't want to talk to him (damned sentiment). But now that he knew the real reason, he wasn't sure he felt any better.

"Will you be able to text during the day at all?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I'm not going to promise you anything. I just don't know how much time I will have. However, I will keep my mobile on me, and probably be able text a bit before I try to get some sleep." Sherlock noticed John's voice was sounding tired.

"Once we start our final preparations before we get the green light, Col. Harrison and I will get the cameras up and running and test them here at the base to make sure Mycroft is getting the signals clearly," John continued before Sherlock could say anything. "We will activate them again once we get on the helicopters heading out, and won't turn them off until we get back to the base again. But it's procedure to leave all personal devices at the base when going on a mission. So my mobile will stay in my bunk until I get back."

"All right, John. Thank you for letting me know." Sherlock paused, not wanting to say goodbye. But, he forced himself to think about his friend. "You're sounding tired. I doubt you got much sleep since you left here. You need to go and try to rest."

John's yawn came through loud and clear, causing Sherlock to let out a huff of laughter.

"I suppose I can't deny it, after that!" John laughed. "All right. I suppose I'd better go then." The reluctance in his voice made Sherlock feel better, knowing he wasn't the only one who didn't want to hang up.

"Listen, I'm not the only one who sounds tired. Why don't you just stay on your bed and try to get some sleep too?" John asked. "You sleep at odd enough hours, this shouldn't throw you off too much."

"I will try. It will help pass the time, at least," conceded Sherlock.

"Good. Then… goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Sherlock regretfully hung up the phone. He realized he missed John more than he thought he would. It had helped a little to hear his voice.

Sighing, he rolled on his side to put his mobile on the bedside table and plug it in to the charger. Sherlock sat up just long enough to slide out of his dressing gown. Laying back down, he pulled his duvet up to his chin and buried his face in his pillow. Thinking of John's voice and the palpable awe as he'd described the night sky, Sherlock drifted away on a sea of stars, images of Afghanistan invading his dreams.

* * *

a/n: Hope you enjoyed the set up here. More action coming in the next chapter... Please read and review!


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Here comes some action, everyone... and some references (and descriptions) of torture. It happens "off screen" though we see the results of it... oh... and an evil cliffhanger at the end.. just warning you! :)_

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to his brother's office. His eyes darted to two screens set next to each other just as one flickered to life. As John's face appeared on the screen, Mycroft reached into his pocket for his mobile.

Col. Harrison's voice sounded through the room, "Is this camera working?"

John's voice in the background replied, "Mycroft should be texting me momentarily."

"Ah, here we are. Yes, but I need to angle it down slightly, sir."

Col. Harrison lowered his voice to a whisper. "How is the pick-up on the mic?"

Mycroft's thumbs flew across his mobile, and John's voice answered, "It appears to be working just fine. Now, let's get mine set and test it as well."

The other screen in Mycroft's office came to life, showing Col. Harrison's face and hands as he adjusted John's camera. After a similar test on the view and sound, they heard John's voice speak one more time.

"All right. I have to make sure I have all I need for the mission. I will shut my camera off now until we are in the choppers and moving. And… umm… Sherlock, though I can't hear you, I know you're there. Thank you." John cleared his throat. "Right. Ok. See you soon."

The screen and audio cut on John's camera. Col. Harrison's camera stayed live for another eight minutes before he cut it out as well to save the batteries. For all of the eight minutes, it was trained solely on John.

Sherlock didn't know if it was his brother's doing, or if Col. Harrison had taken the initiative. But he wasn't going to waste the opportunity to observe his friend.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the screen as John sorted through his medical supplies, consulted with the medic on the team, and loaded his pack. Sherlock was amazed at the amount of supplies John managed to fit in. Then he watched as John field stripped his sniper rifle, cleaning each piece meticulously, before putting it back together again.

Finally, the screen went black and Sherlock sighed. He seated himself on the sofa in Mycroft's office, facing the screens. He wasn't sure how long he had before the video feed would be live again, but he had this break, and even the helicopter flight to rest before John hit the ground and he wanted to be awake and alert the whole time John was. He'd only managed a few hours of sleep after he'd talked with John before he was up again and pacing the flat.

Anthea approached and placed a sandwich, a couple of bottles of water and cup of hot tea on a table next to the sofa. As she left the room, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft.

"Sherlock, I assumed you would want to rest before the mission started, and eating something would help. Then you will more alert for the duration," stated Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I don't need to be coddled," warned Sherlock.

"I wouldn't dream of it. I am merely doing what Doctor Watson asked me to. He warned me you would be here for a while. He asked me to make sure you had food and slept if at all possible." Even though Mycroft appeared to be speaking the truth, he still managed to sound smug and superior about it.

Sherlock gritted his teeth against his natural inclination to spite his brother by ignoring the food and rest offered. However, all he had to do was think about John's parting words over the speakers, and he somehow wrestled down his urge to throttle his brother. John needed him there, listening in "over his shoulder" so to speak. He wasn't going to jeopardize that by getting into petty arguments with Mycroft.

"I have a bit of work to do, which I will take care of elsewhere. I also am going to rest and eat a little as well, prior to the start of the mission."

Mycroft stopped by his side on his way to the door. "I know you are concerned about John. I did try to talk him out of this, but he was adamant. However, I am doing everything in my power to make sure he returns home."

Something in the tone of his brother's voice diffused the tension in Sherlock. It was like a rubber band, pulled to its stretching point, finally snapped.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped, and he allowed his eyes to slip shut. He nodded slightly, "I know." Hearing Mycroft shift his weight and start to move away, he whispered, "Thank you, Mycroft."

His brother's footsteps paused briefly, then continued to the door. Just as the door opened, Sherlock heard, "You're welcome."

After about ten minutes, Sherlock opened his eyes and forced himself to eat the sandwich and drink the tea. Then, slipping his shoes off, he curled up on the sofa on his side to face the screens.

He wrapped his arms around himself and thought of his friend so far away. He'd looked so in his element during those minutes on the camera, unaware he was being observed. So much the doctor as he dealt with his supplies, and so much the soldier as he familiarized himself with his gun.

The healer and the protector were both very strong in him, and Sherlock had been on the receiving end of both before. Now someone else was for a while. It felt… odd. He continued to puzzle over his reactions to John's getting involved in this mission. He'd been all right when they had talked through the night and John had shared his experiences in Afghanistan. It hadn't bothered him hearing about John's other friends. This was different, and he couldn't pinpoint why.

Huffing in frustration, Sherlock flipped onto his back and forced himself to shut his eyes. When his brain didn't naturally slow down, he forced himself to think of one thing, one image to study over and over. It sometimes worked in the past, when he couldn't sleep. The only difference now was that the most vivid image was that of his friend's face as he worked on his sniper rifle. Sherlock studied John's face and hands, the concentration and competence and the myriad of other details that started to pop out at him. Eventually Sherlock felt everything start to get hazy and allowed himself to slip away.

oOOooOOooOOo

Hours later, Sherlock swam back to consciousness. Before he opened his eyes, he realized his head rested on a pillow and he was covered with a soft blanket. He blinked his eyes in the dimly lit room, and realized the lighting was coming from the two screens on the wall. Everything in the room was colored by the green overtones of the night vision video feeds.

Sitting up, Sherlock grabbed a bottled water, cracked it open and drank half of it before saying anything to his brother. Mycroft was seated in a plush armchair close by, his feet propped on an ottoman. He was working on his laptop, occasionally glancing at the screens to make sure nothing had changed.

"Why isn't there any sound? And why didn't you wake me?" Sherlock asked petulantly.

"There is only the noise of the helicopters coming through at the moment. When they started up their cameras, John said they weren't going to be talking, as it was too loud. He was right. As soon as they took off, I had the volume turned off in here. I have someone monitoring the audio, so if we miss any movement on the screen they will notify us."

Mycroft looked up from his phone and over at Sherlock. "As for waking you, you didn't move when I put the blanket on you and settled you on the pillow. I determined if you managed to sleep through that, and the startup of the video, I would attempt to let you sleep as long as possible. I planned to wake you soon, as they should be getting close to the drop zone."

Not knowing what to say, unused to such consideration from his brother, Sherlock nodded and stood. Stretching a bit, he walked around the back of the sofa and to a hidden door in the wall that led to the private bathroom. After washing up a little, Sherlock felt more awake and exited in time to hear the sound click on.

There was still loud background noise from the choppers, but he could see the men starting to drop out of them and hit the ground, running for cover. Col. Harrison was already down, so Sherlock switched to watch as John dropped and rolled, the windblown dust obscuring the camera for a moment until he'd made it to cover behind some rocks.

Sherlock sank back down on the sofa and watched as the team organized itself and started their two hour march.

oOOooOOooOOo

The tunnels twisted and wound their way through the mountain. Natural tunnels were connected to each other through crevices widened by human hands. The natural ones had been there for thousands of years. The manmade ones, for generations. The mapping of them, never written out, was something passed down from father to son, or to trusted friend. They looped back on one another, or led into blind corners and empty caves.

Only familiar with the ones originating from a different entrance in this particular mountain range, John grew increasingly frustrated. Even if they'd started where he was familiar with the tunnels, he couldn't be sure that they would have hidden Murray and Wilkinson in the same place. Or that he could have found it based on his previous experiences.

John repressed a sigh as a team of five came back and reported a dead end. There were few junctions in this particular tunnel, and most of the off shoots were either small natural caves or dead end tunnels. The longer they stayed in here the lower their chances dropped of getting out alive. They'd had to fight their way in, but they were certain they'd eliminated their enemies silently, and before they could give the alarm.

Turning to Roberts, John asked in a whisper, "How long?"

Not missing a beat, he replied, "Six hours and forty three minutes."

Looking over at Col. Harrison he nodded and the Colonel gave the order to pause to drink and eat a quick bite.

John ate an energy bar quickly and stowed his water bottle back into his pack. Standing to stretch his legs, he took a few steps away from the team and froze.

Roberts sensed his movement, or lack thereof, in the pitch back. "Cap?"

John threw up a hand, silencing him immediately. He took another step, holding his breath, hoping what he thought he'd heard would be repeated. Turning his head slightly, he listened intently, and just as he was turning back, he heard it again.

A low moan, choked off at the end by a sob, drifted faintly through the air.

"Please, please tell me I'm not hearing things," John breathed. "Where. Where are you? Come on, let me hear you again."

Col. Harrison, Roberts and a few others started to approach, freezing when they heard the moan that was distinctly human in origin. John continued forward slowly, stopping and checking a cross tunnel was clear before moving beyond it. The further he got beyond it the quieter the sound. Backing up, he silently pointed to both his right and left.

The others waited at the junction as John carefully walked to his left and the sound faded again. To be certain, he walked a few more meters and the sound faded all together. He retraced his steps to the team, shaking his head and going down the other tunnel. The sound increased, and then he found a small side tunnel that sloped down, further into the mountain.

Coming back to the team, he explained what he found. After laying out their options, Col. Harrison asked, "Are you sure it's live? That this isn't a recording stuck on a loop to lure us in further?"

John held his breath and listened again. "No, I can't say I'm 100% certain, but there is too much variation in the sound and once in a while it sounds like someone murmuring words. It's really too faint to make out yet, but I don't think it's a recording, sir. It's impossible to tell with the tunnels and how they carry sound, how close we are, but it is definitely coming from that direction." John pointed back down the last passage he'd been down. "The sooner we move to follow it, the closer it might get us to Murray and Wilkinson, sir."

Making a quick decision, Col. Harrison nodded. "All right, we'll follow it for as long as it lasts and hope we don't regret it. Keep alert, boys. If they're down there, it's likely to get ugly very quickly. Remember, keep it as quiet as possible. Guns as a last resort."

oOOooOOooOOo

Winding their way through the descending tunnel, they found it opened into a wider space. John looked carefully around the small cave, seeing only one opening, nearly directly opposite them. Moving through the space, something caught his attention crumpled into a ball by the wall. Next to it, small, dark patches stained the ground.

"May I risk a little light, Colonel?" whispered John. Receiving an affirmative, John dug in one of his pockets for his torch.

Once a few men were out the entrance to the tunnel ahead of them, John flipped his night vision out of the way. Clicking on the torch, he examined the clothing in front of him before touching it.

"This one," John said, indicating the obvious army jacket wadded into a ball, "has been purposely thrown here. The other, I think might have been left behind. It looks like it slipped from something, or someone."

Carefully moving the one that was lying flat, he saw the jacket was covered with blood, but the name patch still on the jacket was what made his breath catch.

MURRAY

When one of the other men unrolled the other shirt, it too had blood on it, and another name.

WILKINSON

John's heart pounded, but he forced his breathing into a regular pattern and forced himself to pull back and be objective. Examining the blood stains carefully, he then tested the dark patches on the ground.

Nodding to himself, he stood.

"The some of the blood on the jackets is recent, but other patches are older. They are dried and well set in the fabric. The patches on the floor are fresh, within the last two hours. It's cold and drying, but still tacky. Everyone needs to look for other patches in the passageway, any droplets. It may be difficult to pick up, but let's see if we can find something."

Immediately the men spread out through the passageway in groups of three. Keeping a distance between each group, they searched the floors for drops of blood, finding small dark patches every once in a while. John spotted a couple of spots where a hand had dragged along the wall at waist height, leaving a bloodied smear behind.

Every once in a while, a soft moan ahead of them would encourage them to keep going. Praying it wasn't leading them into an ambush, John stayed near the front of the group, trying to make sense out of the partial words he could hear.

The three men running point, signaled the group to stop. Quickly meeting up with them they signaled there was a stationary light source up ahead.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock had pulled a chair as close to the screens as he could, watching avidly as the men searched the tunnels. When John started hearing the noise and started pleading in a whisper, "Please, please tell me I'm not hearing things," Sherlock wanted to shout, "I can hear it too, John!"

Then John traced the sound by himself, and Sherlock nearly had a heart attack. _The idiot should have taken someone with him!_ He glanced at Mycroft long enough to see he thought the same thing, but neither of them dared verbalize it.

Sherlock felt pride welling up in him as he saw John observe the jackets and make an estimation on the length of time they'd been left behind. As the team spread out and looked for the trail of blood that led them closer to the sound, he was impressed with the level of silence they were able to maintain. Even with the mic so close to Col. Harrison's and John's mouths, they barely picked up their breathing.

Seeing a flurry of hand signals just out of range of the camera's focus, Sherlock was grateful when John gently breathed into the mic, "Stationary light source. Proceeding with caution."

He watched John's camera as he crept forward towards the curve in the passage and took a quick glimpse around a rocky outcropping to find intersecting tunnels. He held his breath as the rest of the team moved quickly forward to position themselves to guard the junction of passageways, while John and Col. Harrison and one other moved down towards the source of light.

Sudden male voices caused the team to press themselves into cracks and crevices in the tunnel walls. Speaking what Sherlock could only assume was Dari or Pashto, several men appeared in the walkway ahead of John. They paused outside the area the light was coming from, and after a bit more discussion, entered it, out of sight of the team.

He could hear John's gust of breath in the mic and a quick translation, "They discussed going to the 'front door' to check on the others. One convinced them to see the prisoners first because the boss was going to do something special."

"Colonel, I don't like the sound of that," John murmured. "We need to see what is in that room, and how many."

At that moment, there was a dull thud followed by someone crying out in pain. John jumped. So did Sherlock. He could hear John breathe increase rapidly. Another flurry of hand signals and the forward group, John included crept forward to the entrance to a small cave like room. Using a device to peer around the corner, hand signals clearly indicated three men by the door, and four more further in.

As John retreated to Col. Harrison's side, Sherlock heard their hurried conversation get cut off as an awful scream rang through the speakers.

"No… no, no! Don't…" The words got suddenly muffled, then silenced before inarticulate gurgling, strangled noises came through, clearly accompanied by the sound of splashing water.

"Oh, God. No..." John's horrified voice layered over the top of sounds of violent thrashing.

"John? John, what is it?" hissed Col. Harrison.

"That's Murray's voice… and they're… they're waterboarding him. We have _got_ to get in there. Quickly." John's voice was insistent, the noises of torture covering their movements as they got into position. "I have to have someone with me. I am going straight back through the middle, where they have him. I didn't get a clear look of the set up, so I am going to need an extra set of hands to free him and get his airway clear."

Just as Col. Harrison nodded, there was a sudden silence broken by violent retching, then desperate gasps for air. Words in Dari, then in English, "No answer? Again!" followed by a sudden splash of water and more thrashing around.

"It's now, or he isn't going to survive this!" John made a move towards the door, and Col. Harrison signaled Roberts to go with him. Seven more of the men, including Harrison backed up John and Roberts, leaving the other six to guard the passageway outside.

Sherlock held his breath and clenched his fists as John dove straight through the room, ducking several hits before tackling a man standing by an inclined table. A flash of a knife and the man wasn't even on the ground before John turned towards the table. It was clear that the table was inclined so the person restrained had his head immersed in a bucket full of water.

As John raised the table, he knocked over the bucket. Water streamed off the man as John started talking.

"Murray!" John used a knife to cut away cloth that had been wrapped around his head.

"Damn! Roberts, I need you! Help me. They started with pouring the water over the cloth on his face. The leader got frustrated and just dunked his whole head in this last time." John checked his pulse. "Got a pulse… Murray! Murray, come on, take a breath!

Roberts worked frantically next to him, freeing the man from the ropes restraining him. John held him in his arms for a heart-stopping moment of silence. Just as he prepared to lay him down and start rescue breaths, the sound of weak retching came through the audio feed. Breathing a sigh of relief, John gently rolled Murray into recovery position and held him there as he coughed up water and started gasping for air.

Sherlock and Mycroft watched through Col. Harrison's feed as he checked a body lying in a pool of blood. It was Wilkinson. Col. Harrison shook his head at John. John's face became grim as he looked around the room taking in the state of his friend and how even though he'd been tied to the table, his ankles were still shackled by a long chain to the wall.

"Murray. Slow breaths now. No, no… don't fight me. You're safe now. We've come to get you."

"No… 'nother dream. Watson wouldn't be here. Can't trick me into talking. Rather die…" Murray's weak voice was interrupted by hacking coughs that trailed off into a moan of pain.

"Get a blanket down on the floor, closer to the wall. I need another set of hands over here!" John called. Someone jumped over immediately. "Ok, we need to very, very carefully move him onto that blanket. I need to get him off this table. Watch his leg, and this arm here."

As people got in place, and John focused his attention back down to his friend, Sherlock saw the moment it started to dawn on Murray that John was actually there.

"John," he gasped. "You're really here?" His hand moved weakly to try to reach out, and John gently cradled it in his own.

"Yeah, mate. And I'm about to cause you a world of pain. We have to move you off this thing. Then I can look you over and stabilize you for transport."

"Now, I know you're here," Murray rasped. "You've always caused me a world of pain." John let out a rough bark of laughter at that, before directing the movements of the men as they moved him.

Sherlock winced as he watched as Murray tried to muffle his scream as they made the transfer, and his stomach started churning when he got a good look at Murray's hand that John still held. Multiple fingers were broken, and all his fingernails had been pulled.

John started to total up the injuries. "Right leg: suspected broken fibula, shattered tibia, bottom of the feet flayed so he couldn't run, right arm: fractured radius and ulna, and compound fracture humerus. Three, no four cracked ribs…"

"John. John stop a minute," interrupted Murray, hoarsely.

"What, Bill?"

"My back. You gotta see it now." Col. Harrison was kneeling by them both now, and his camera picked up the particular intensity on Murray's face.

John complied and with help, gently rolled Murray onto his left side and cut open the thin t-shirt he was wearing. As John eased the material away, Roberts immediately started handing him pressure bandages. However, John froze.

John's camera didn't pick up clearly what it was he was looking at. At least, Sherlock and Mycroft couldn't make it out amidst the blood that covered Murray's back. But Col. Harrison's camera picked up John's suddenly pale, drawn face and closed eyes.

"Oh, Bill," moaned John. "My God! Bill, are you sure?" he barely whispered.

At Bill's faint nod, John ordered Roberts to bandage up what he could reach.

He scrambled away and to his feet. Using one arm to brace himself against a wall on the other side of the room, John vomited violently in a corner.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he accepted the water bottle Col. Harrison handed him. Rinsing his mouth and spitting, then drinking a little, Sherlock and Mycroft could see his pale face and shaking hands through the Colonel's feed.

"You all right, John?" Col. Harrison asked, steadying him with a hand on his right shoulder.

John turned his head to the side, trying to slow his breathing down. Sherlock realized he was close to a panic attack and trying to gain control of it. The Colonel obviously realized it too, as he used his body to shield John from the rest of the room, attempting to give him a little privacy.

"Easy, John. Take a couple deep breaths. Good, now slow them down… Steady…"

As John's panic grew, a faint, pained whimper escaped him and he started trembling head to toe.

Col. Harrison tried to gain his attention and pull his focus back. "John, open your eyes and look at me, not whatever you're seeing. Come on, look at me, John."

Not responding to Col. Harrison's voice, John sank to a crouch, no longer able to keep his feet under him. Catching the water bottle that dropped from his nerveless hand, Col. Harrison went down with him, waving off a medic and sending him over to Murray.

His hand still on John's shoulder, Col. Harrison changed tactics slightly. "Captain Watson. Open your eyes and look at me. That's an order, soldier."

John's training prompted him to automatically respond, and his eyes flew open, wildly scanning the room until they locked in on Col. Harrison's face. The panic in John's eyes slowly receded and his breathing started to slow. Sitting down fully, John tucked his head against his knees, blocking his camera.

Raising his head after a moment, though high anxiety was still evident by his body language, John said, "Shit. Sorry, sir. How long?"

"Only a couple of minutes, John. You're fine. We have time, yet."

"Not… if that was what… I think it was… on Murray's back… We don't have much… time at all." John clearly was still fighting to get his breathing under control. Surging to his feet, he staggered and almost fell. The Colonel grabbed onto him by both arms. When he was sure he was steady, he let go.

Roberts approached them and John jumped.

"Take it easy, Cap. I didn't think I was that terrifying," Roberts joked.

John managed a faint chuckle. Reclaiming the water bottle the Colonel was urging on him, he nodded once, sharply. Looking in his eyes, he said "Thanks, Colonel."

Col. Harrison shrugged it off.

Roberts asked pointedly, "Cap? Was there something we need to check on?"

"That's right. You were on that recovery too," John murmured and Roberts nodded, looking at him with compassion.

John walked over with Roberts and the Colonel to where the men had laid the insurgents. John grabbed a man's left arm and pulled back the sleeve.

"Shit," John whispered. Then his voice got gradually louder. "Damn it… This is all kinds of bad!" John swore again, and any remaining symptoms of his panic attack vanished under the flood of adrenalin. "Colonel, please check the others for the same tattoo, left forearm. If it's not there, it will be near the left shoulder blade."

"John, what's so important… what's on Murray's back?" the Colonel asked.

"These… insurgents, this particular group all have this tattoo. When they capture soldiers, enemies, they torture them and mark them. Either they cut the pattern of the tattoo into their back, on the right side, or they burn it in… anything to leave a scar… a reminder they have to carry the rest of their lives, if they survive and escape or are rescued." John grimaced. "Now they've done it to Murray, and it's so deep, it's what's caused a lot of his blood loss, and there's no way it isn't gonna scar."

"Please. Find out how many have the tattoo, and the placement of them," John requested as he ran back over to Murray.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a glance. While Mycroft moved to the other side of the room, getting someone to start tracing that tattoo, Sherlock committed it to memory.

By the time Mycroft came back to the screens, John was moving as quickly as he could around Murray. Stabilizing his leg and arm and wrapping his hands, John bandaged everything he possibly could to stop Murray's blood loss. Preparing him for transport, John kept part of his good arm free for easy access to a vein. As they watched the two screens and the movements of the men, they listened to John's conversation with Murray.

"Listen, I am going to try to splint you the best I can. However, once we have you strapped to the stretcher you won't be doing much moving around." John stopped as Bill started to panic. "No, Bill, listen. I promise, we aren't going to cover your face, and I hate that we have to strap you down after all you've been through. But, I'm going to sedate the hell out of you and you'll be so out of it, you'll be able to miss the whole grand tour on the way outta this joint."

As Murray gasped for air, fighting his panic, John put a gentle hand on the side of his face. "Hey, hey. Bill, listen to me. You saved my arse once upon a time, and now it's my turn to return the favor. You're getting out of here, and going home to Vicki and those two kids of yours. You got that, soldier?"

Murray grinned weakly at John, calming down slowly. "Yes, Cap. I hear you, sir."

Col. Harrison thumped down to his knees next to John. "Ok, here's what we've got. Out of the ones in this room all but two had the tattoos on their forearms. One of those who didn't, had his on his left shoulder blade. But the man you took out was different."

"How so?" John asked tightly.

"He had the tattoo on his left shoulder blade, but also on the upper left side of his chest."

"Shit!" Bill and John spoke simultaneously.

"Bill, that was the guy waterboarding you. Did you know him, or see him a lot?" John asked urgently.

"A few times. My memory is pretty hazy right now. But from what I could tell, everyone was afraid of him," murmured Bill, as he started to weaken. "He may have been the leader of this group."

"If that's the case, we might have a chance that they'll be too disorganized, and we can still get out of here," John muttered.

"What just happened, John?" asked Col. Harrison. "What's going on?"

"Well, sir. We either killed their leader, or their leader's very close second hand man. The importance is where the tattoos are placed, and how many they have." John leaned in close to speak more privately. "Listen, we've… run across… them before. I should only tell you so much, but this team is in danger and needs the info, so to hell with classified."

Glancing at Murray as he shifted and said his name, John muttered, "I know, I'll take responsibility. It's on me."

"Get the men ready to roll while I sedate Murray and get him on the stretcher. I'll talk as we move."

oOOooOOooOOo

After a short flurry of work, the team was on the move, lights out, heading back the way they came. As they did, Col. Harrison dropped back to walk with John who was in the middle of the group, monitoring Murray's condition.

"How is he?"

"He's badly dehydrated, lost too much blood and nearly drowned," came John's terse answer. "But, if he survives the trip to the forward base where they can stabilize him, he may make it."

Sherlock could hear John growl at himself, and it looked like he rubbed at his face.

"Sorry, sir. I just…"

John was interrupted by a signal from one of the men checking a side chamber they'd missed on their way in. Stepping into it, they risked a little light to see bundles of something stacked against the wall.

"Oh, our day just gets better and better," John said, dryly.

Sherlock snorted at John's sarcasm.

"Pre-processed opium. I don't want to think about how much money is represented here." John groaned. "They aren't going to leave this alone for long. The group that was in with Bill was probably supposed to be guarding this." Looking at two other soldiers, he said, "Get pictures of this, quickly, and let's get moving!"

As the team moved out, picking up the pace, John started talking again. "So, not just insurgents anymore. Most likely drug lords with connections outside the country. They are using insurgents and raids and terror to cover for their drug operations, and to seize more poppies. We were working on tracking this group down, and taking out a portion at a time, just prior to your taking over our special ops team."

John sighed, "There was an engagement that I… we… got… caught in, that went pear shaped… in the worst way. I, among others, was… injured. Roberts and Murray were a part of it as well. Half… half our team… was…" John swallowed hard. "Was decimated. They were… it was… yeah."

John stopped briefly to collect himself. "When the… dust settled, you came in as our leader. We were rebuilt and moved to a different area of the province. It was a good move in the end, I think. Our team was getting burned out and needed a change."

Col. Harrison kept his voice low. "I never knew what happened. They kept it so blacked out. I just knew you men needed a bit of time to recover and was glad they moved us out of Bastion in a different direction."

John replied, "To be honest, I was too."

oOOooOOooOOo

"Mycroft, what was all that about?" Sherlock asked, his voice dark and dangerous.

Looking at him honestly, Mycroft replied, "I don't know, Sherlock. I tried to get into those files and they are blacked out, even from me. We were able to pull a lot of information in John's file that isn't there normally, but this… there was a five to six month gap in his records. When they pick up again, it's with a brief note that John was treated for undisclosed injuries at Camp Bastion, passed his physical and psychological evaluations and was cleared for full active duty. He was reunited with part of his old team, some new members, and a Major Harrison as the commander."

"Nothing. How can there just be six months of _nothing_?" ranted Sherlock, keeping one eye on the screens.

"Just as easily as this mission isn't happening now and will have never happened. They will go through a debriefing, notes will be taken, and it will be locked down at the highest level."

oOOooOOooOOo

As the team continued to make their way to the entrance, Sherlock paced the room. He didn't like how quiet it had been for the team since they reached Murray. He could tell John was getting more uptight about it as well.

"Colonel," John whispered, "It's too quiet. You know there is probably a group waiting for us just ahead."

Col. Harrison nodded grimly. "We're going to need to keep Murray protected, a group on point, and a group guarding our rear. We don't want to get caught in the middle, but it's most likely. It depends on if the alarm has spread, or if the rest are out in the surrounding desert and villages, rather than here. I'm hoping they just had a smaller force holding the prisoners and guarding the opium."

"You and me, both," agreed John fervently.

Sherlock watched intently as they reorganized the men, and took a short break for water before they turned the corner and up the last passageway to the entrance.

John made sure that everyone on the team knew that whoever called in the choppers for pick up, once they were clear, had to make sure that IV fluids and blood, AB negative, needed to come out with them.

"Murray's life is depending on it. His pulse is weak, and I don't dare give him much more morphine at the moment." John looked closely at the men who had been carrying the stretcher. "You need to switch out with someone else and take a break from carrying. You're getting too tired to carry him and run if we need to." The men nodded and freed up their weapons as they switched places with two others.

From Col. Harrison's screen, it was obvious he was scanning the area and checking over his men, getting ready to move momentarily.

John on the other hand, knelt down by Murray, ostensibly to check his vitals. However, he started speaking under his breath.

"Sherlock and Mycroft. I am sure you have been following this all. I am trusting you to remember the events and things we found. Once I get back, I may not be able to say a word about any of this. Be careful what you do with the information, as it is highly classified. All that I've said to Col. Harrison, and in your hearing, may have severe consequences for me, unless the 'powers that be' determine what I shared was essential to the survival of our team."

"Sherlock, I don't know what the outcome of this fight, that we both know is coming, will be. But either way, I may not be able to communicate again with you until we get back to the base. I will try to keep the camera going until we are wheels down on the base, as long as the battery lasts. And no, I know what you're thinking, Sherlock. This isn't me saying goodbye. It's just… talk to you soon… and, um… thanks."

As Col. Harrison walked back towards John, his camera picked up John as he shook his head, looking slightly uncomfortable and embarrassed. John stood, and looking directly into Col. Harrison's camera, he grinned and nodded his head, before whispering, "Thank you," one more time.

Sherlock studied John's face, unsure when he'd next see him. Even behind his protective goggles, his eyes were warm despite the stress of the situation. Under the dust and dirt and tired lines on his face, John's smile was genuine and full of confidence.

He watched as Col. Harrison asked, "We all good here?" When John answered in the affirmative, Col. Harrison continued, "Well then, let's get rolling, get out of here, and get you home, Captain!"

oOOooOOooOOo

Things moved so quickly after that, Sherlock barely had time to absorb it. Within view of the entrance, insurgents jumped them, coming from a small side cave and a couple of crevices near the mouth of the cave.

The men on the team burst into action. The screens blurred as both Col. Harrison and John engaged in hand to hand combat. The speakers were a riot of noise; voices speaking a mix of Dari and English, but no gunfire. By the time the dust had settled, all the insurgents were on the ground.

"Did any get away?!" Col. Harrison's voice was rough and out of breath, but urgent.

One of the men at the back came through the speakers as they said, "No one got past us back here."

John grabbed his pack, which he'd shucked right before the fighting started, and checked over everyone, bandaging some minor wounds and a sprained wrist. Within ten minutes, John indicated they were as ready to go as they could be.

Sherlock heard John mutter, "You know there are going to be snipers out there in the rocks to pick us off as we try to exit, Colonel."

"Yeah, that was far too easy."

"May I try something, Colonel?" John asked.

"What did you have in mind?

"I think I see some light coming from one of those crevices. If I'm right, it might be a way up into the rocks above the entrance. I might be able to get high enough to see where the other snipers are, if you draw their fire." As John said this, one of the men carefully moved his helmet, balanced on the end of his rifle, in the opening, and the ground was peppered with gun fire.

"Yeah, I think you'd better try it. We have at least three out there in view of the opening."

John immediately nodded and dropped his pack next to Murray, requesting the men take it with them when they got out.

The images on his screen were indistinguishable for a moment until he moved into a slightly more open area. Clearing the area with his rifle, John whispered for Col. Harrison's benefit, "It's clear here, but there are obvious hand and foot holds carved into the stone. I am moving up. Requesting radio silence until I say otherwise, please."

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, John loosened his knife in its sheath as well as making sure his handgun was ready to pull. Slowly he pulled himself up, and carefully peered over the lip of the opening at the top of a flat boulder, surrounded by other rocks. It was a perfect cover for a sniper. Once he was certain the area was clear, John crept on his stomach to the edge and looked out over the ground below, as well as some of the higher places within sight of the entrance below him.

"Ok, Colonel, I am currently in the clear, and I even see a very steep pathway down to meet you at the front if someone comes up behind me. Draw some fire, and have a couple snipers ready. I will be able to give them sight lines."

Once again, the action happened so quickly, it was hard to follow on Col. Harrison's screen, though John's was much more stable. As the men below started drawing fire, John lined up his shots, as well as verbally directing the snipers below where to target.

Sherlock counted John taking out three snipers on his own, while guiding the men below to take out another four or five. Having someone up above, provided a distinct advantage and John was able to provide cover fire while the first group of men got out and into the cover of some rocks.

"I see more insurgents coming in through the rocks to our right. MOVE Colonel! Get the rest of the men out! I'll continue to provide cover fire until you are free to cover me. But hurry, before I get cut off." Even as John was shouting what he was seeing, he was rapidly picking off men, or causing them to stop and take cover.

Without realizing it, Sherlock grabbed onto Mycroft's arm as several insurgents turned all their fire towards John.

"Damn!" They could see rock and dust as John took cover and heard him gasp, "Need some help here, sir."

They couldn't hear the response, but John lifted his head from where he'd been ducked down behind some rocks. Carefully looking out, he could see their men had the insurgents under control for the moment.

Col. Harrison's voice came through, "Captain?! John! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah… that was a bit close for comfort." John breathed heavily and then lined up a couple of other shots. "Is everyone out? Are you clear?!"

"Yes, John. Now get out of there!"

"I'm going to need cover fire. There's noises behind me," John whispered. "They're flanking... Shit!"

Sherlock saw the sky for a moment as John rolled onto his back. Pulling his handgun, he fired, killing two insurgents, one who was climbing over the boulders behind him, and one who emerged from the spot John had climbed up.

"Captain!"

"It's now or never, Colonel! Get me that cover fire! I'm coming down the front. I'm overrun. I repeat, I'm overrun! Moving now, cover fire or no!"

John turned back to the front and launched to his feet, vaulting over the rocks in front of him, landing hard on a narrow ledge below. Shifting slightly, he ducked and shot back over his shoulder, killing another insurgent who was about to jump him.

Quickly leaping to a boulder below him, John then dropped onto a nearly vertical path below which turned and traveled almost straight down the face of the cliff.

Sherlock gasped as John started to slide, kicking up dust around him. He watched him reach his arm out and grab onto a sharp piece of rock jutting from the side of the cliff. It slowed his descent slightly, but caused John to grunt in pain as it wrenched his left shoulder in the process. With a sudden movement, John fired nearly straight above himself, almost without looking, and a man's body fell past him.

Sherlock heard one of the men near Col. Harrison shout, "We got you, Cap! When you hit the bottom of the path, head to your 11 o'clock. Now it's _**your**_ turn to move!"

Turning his attention to Col. Harrison's screen, Sherlock watched as John shot one more time behind himself before letting go of the rock he was clinging to and allowing himself to slide and pick up speed. His feet were planted sideways, and his left hand dragged behind him to help keep his balance.

Finally hitting the solid ground, John ducked and ran, trusting his men to have his back. Racing past a small boulder, he ran full speed past an outcropping, when a couple of hands grabbed his arm and part of his body armor. Using John's forward momentum, they swung him around the corner of the rock, just as a hail of bullets pelted the sand where he'd been running only a split second before.

John's back hit the rock behind him hard, while someone's hands steadied him as his breath left him in a rush at the impact.

"Do you have him? Roberts, do you have John?! Is he all right?" Col. Harrison's voice came desperately across his audio feed.

"Fine, Colonel… 'm fine," gasped John as he started to recover his breath.

"Great grab, Roberts. Now meet up with us so we can get the hell out of here!" ordered Col. Harrison.

John and Roberts met up with the rest of the team, scattered among boulders and outcroppings of the lower shoulder of the mountain they just exited.

"ETA on choppers?" John asked, as he caught his breath.

"Two hours to the RV," was the answer.

"Then we'd better be moving. We are gonna have to push it to make that," muttered John.

Bending over a map on the ground, he traced a quick route, confirming it with Col. Harrison. "Looks like if we follow this lower area in the scrub, we might be able to keep from kicking up too much dust, and it will provide a bit of cover for us."

Roberts and another Lieutenant confirmed his thoughts. After John checked on Murray, they began to move before the insurgents regrouped and started overrunning their position.

oOOooOOooOOo

As the team started moving out, Sherlock realized he was gripping Mycroft's arm almost hard enough to leave bruises. About to let go, he looked down and noticed Mycroft's other hand on top of his, holding it tightly, as he continued to focus his eyes on the screens.

Finally they glanced at each other and let out simultaneous sighs of relief. Mycroft gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze, before letting go. Sherlock released his hold, and trembling from the tension, backed up to sit down on the sofa, eyes refocused on the screens again.

oOOooOOooOOo

After nearly an hour jogging through the scrub and desert, the team found shelter in the rocks, as the light started fading from the sky. The whole time, John stayed by Murray's side, keeping an eye on him.

Col. Harrison approached them and asked John how he was.

John soberly shook his head and muttered, "Not good."

Sherlock murmured, "Oh no. After all this…"

"How long to the RV? Another 45 minutes?" asked John.

When Col. Harrison nodded, John asked, "If the choppers diverted to our current location?"

Someone got on the radio, giving their GPS location. After conferring for a moment, it was confirmed that rerouting the choppers would get them to their position in 30 minutes.

"Colonel, if we can, let's do it. I need to get blood and fluids into Murray ASAP, or he isn't going to make it to the base," John's voice was tense. "His body underwent too much stress. He's in severe hemorrhagic shock, and extremely dehydrated."

"All right, call them in to our coordinates," Col. Harrison commanded. As it was done, he set up a perimeter guard, while John sat on the ground by Murray's side, monitoring his vitals.

All the while, John kept up a steady conversation, as if Murray could hear him.

Sherlock found himself swallowing hard and clenching his jaw. He knew what it would do to John to have gotten Murray this far and lose him now. He sat on the edge of his seat as the thirty minutes passed, and he saw the men scramble to their feet.

He heard the shouted orders over the sound of the incoming choppers, "Murray and Watson need to get in the first one. Medics, blood and IV supplies are on board." As soon as the first chopper was loaded, it lifted off to provide cover for the other one as the rest of the team scrambled aboard. No shots were fired and the choppers turned for the base.

Over the noise, Sherlock could hear John calling orders and information back and forth with the medics. Two IV lines were quickly started, one in Murray's arm, and one very carefully placed in the jugular vein in his neck. As soon as they were secure, they started pushing the fluids and blood as fast as they dared.

Two minutes out from the base, both Mycroft and Sherlock froze when they heard John shout, "He's crashing!"

Immediately John straddled Murray and started CPR, while a medic bagged him.

"Damned if I'm gonna lose you now, Murray. Come. On! Stay with me!"

Even as the chopper landed, and personnel swarmed them, John stayed on top of Murray, continuing CPR as they got him into medical tent, and headed him for the triage area.

* * *

_a/n: As I said... another evil cliffhanger... I seem to manage to specialize in these things! :D Blessings, and please read and review!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: And here we go! Hope you enjoy! :)_

* * *

Once he started the 0.9% saline solution and the unit of blood, John allowed himself to breathe a little easier. He sat at Murray's head and kept his fingers pressed gently against the carotid artery to constantly monitor his heart rate. That was why, as soon as Murray's pulse began to falter, and fail, John was able to respond so quickly.

"He's crashing!" John yelled. He felt his adrenaline spike as he jumped on the stretcher, straddling Murray as he started chest compressions. A medic bagged him, and helped John keep count, giving air every thirty compressions.

Sweat ran down John's face, out from under his helmet. His breaths came in gasps as he continued the compression.

"19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25… Come. On. Murray! Don't do this to me," John panted.

Dimly, over the roar of the chopper engine, he heard a shout, "Thirty seconds to the ground!"

Someone's hands steadied him as they landed so he could continue compressions. Knowing they were moments away from being able to use a defibrillator, John shouted for one of the medics to administer epinephrine. Hearing his order confirmed, John kept the compressions going as the chopper was swarmed by medical personnel.

The extra hands made the transfer from the helicopter to a cart smooth, even with the combined weight of both John and Murray. As they were rushed into the triage area of the medical tent, John kept part of his attention on the information flying back and forth, relying on his medics to give the other doctors the pertinent information.

Working around John, the nurses and doctors cut away the straps and blankets. John lifted his hands momentarily so they could cut away Murray's shirt, then resumed compressions as they prepped the defibrillator and applied the pads.

Suddenly, hands were pulling him off and away from Murray. He fought for a moment to get back to Bill, before he heard the "Clear!" and saw Murray's body jump with the electrical shock. Immediately another nurse resumed compressions until they were ready to check for a pulse. The nurse cleared and they shocked Murray again.

As a different nurse resumed compressions, John stood helplessly by, someone's hands still holding him by the shoulders as he unconsciously leaned toward his friend. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides, and all he could think was "Please… please… please… Fight, Bill. You have to fight. Please! Don't let it end this way. It can't!" He was completely unaware he was murmuring the words aloud.

They cleared the table and shocked Murray a third time, following up with more medication. Just as they were getting ready to start compressions again, Murray's eyelids flickered. He started gasping for air. As he became more alert, he started weakly trying to move his head away from the oxygen mask. Hands held him down, held him still, as he started to struggle more strongly against the mask

John yelled over the other voices, "Stop forcing the mask! He was water boarded!"

The medical personnel all eased up on how they were restraining him, and lifted the mask away from Murray's face.

Wrenching himself away from the hands holding him, he moved up to Murray's head. "Bill! Bill, it's me! Relax! It's ok. You're safe now. It's just an oxygen mask. Look at me." Laying a gently hand against the side of his face he waited until Bill's eyes slowly focused on him. He repeated, "You're safe, mate. Here, let me show you."

Taking the oxygen mask from the nurse holding it, John slowly moved it over Bill's face, keeping it several inches above his skin. "Feel the cool air? It's just air. Come on, take a deep breath. That's it. Good. Do it again. Great, Bill. You're doing great. Now, I'm going to lower it towards your face."

Seeing the panic building up, John lowered it very slowly, just a little, so the edges barely brushed Bill's face, until he calmed a bit. John could tell the meds they were using were starting to kick in.

"You all right now? Can I put it down the rest of the way?" At Bill's weary nod, John lowered it the rest of the way, holding it in place as the rest of the staff put him under to get him into surgery.

John allowed himself to be bumped and pushed out of the way, once Bill was out again. Leaning against one of the exam tables along one wall, he slowly started to let some tension go. As they moved Bill to the operating theater, John's eyes followed him, only refocusing when he heard a nurse speaking insistently to him.

"Captain? Did you say he was water boarded? Is there anything else we should know?" She watched him with concern as he visibly tried to collect his thoughts.

"Right radius and ulna, fractured. Right humerus, compound fracture. Right tibia shattered, as well as possibly broken right fibula as well. Right ankle sprained or broken, too swollen to determine on site. Multiple cracked ribs on the right. More now that CPR was done. Multiple broken fingers, both hands. Fingernails pulled out. Not sure about toenails. Bottom of feet flayed. Back was caned. Back was also carved into with a straight blade knife with a serrated edge. Suspected no food for weeks and barely any water." John rattled off all the injuries in almost a monotone. "That's all I had time to determine on site. No idea about internal injuries"

"You're starting to go into shock, sir," the nurse stated.

John barely heard her. All he could do was worry if Murray was going to make it with all the damage done to his body.

He shivered a little, then registered the warmth of someone standing so close they were brushing shoulders with him. Glancing over, he saw Roberts looking at him with concern.

"Were you…" John paused as his voice trembled. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Were you the one who pulled me off him?"

"Yeah, you didn't seem to hear them yelling at you to get clear." As Roberts talked, he started tugging on the straps holding John's body armor in place.

John stopped him for a moment. "Wait. Just a second." Forcing himself to focus, he spoke quickly and quietly for the benefit of those listening on the other end. "Sherlock, I've got to get out of my gear, get checked over and cleaned up. I am going to turn off my feed now. Talk to you as soon as I can get to my phone." Nodding at Roberts, he switched off the camera and Roberts disconnected it from the battery pack and transmitter.

Unable to summon the energy to help, John just let Roberts wrestle him out of his body armor and take off his helmet, as well as his jacket. Roberts helped steady him as he sat down on the exam table he'd been leaning against.

John's hands started shaking and he could feel the tremors move up his arms to the rest of his body. Dropping his head back against the wall, he mumbled, "Adrenaline crash. Moderate shock. Mild to moderate dehydration. IV fluids and protein packs."

Everything grew hazy for a while, and the murmur of voices drifted past him. Slowly his senses came back to him one by one. He realized he was holding a protein pack in one hand, and an IV had been started in his other arm. Roberts was just settling a blanket over his shoulders after helping the nurse cut his sweat soaked shirt off him, to get it over his IV.

Shivering violently, he looked up into Col. Harrison's very concerned eyes.

He grinned weakly at him. "Hey, Colonel. When… when did you get here?"

"As my chopper landed, I saw you straddling Murray, doing CPR as they ran you in here. I followed. I've been here the whole time."

Col. Harrison shook his head as he looked fondly at John. "Damn you, and your bloody spectacular adrenaline crashes! I forgot how bad these were, John."

"Yeah, haven't had one for a while, not since the Pool, and even that wasn't this bad. Course, I haven't done an extended mission like this in a while either." John listed slightly to the side and Roberts slid closer to prop him upright. "Did I pass out?"

"No, you just went non-responsive for…" Col. Harrison looked over at the nurse.

She shook her head. "After diagnosing yourself and giving the recommended treatment, you were conscious but out of it for nearly twenty minutes. For half of that you didn't respond to anything. Once I got the fluids running, it took you about 5 minutes to get to the point where we could get you to start drinking some of that protein pack. Which, by the way, you are going to finish now."

John meekly finished it and only glared a little when Col. Harrison promptly handed him another one. He still felt too shaky to resist, though his head was starting to clear. As it did, he noticed that his shaking was starting to cause his shoulder to hurt. Other aches and pains started to make themselves known.

Groaning a bit, John tried to stretch his shoulder. He froze as a sharp pain stabbed through it. He remembered wrenching it, but that shouldn't have caused the pain he currently felt.

"What the hell?" John grimaced as the pain in his shoulder grew worse.

"Should we show him now what we found?" asked the nurse.

Taking shallow breaths to minimize the pain, John glared back and forth between her and the two men until Roberts held a piece of John's body armor out for him to examine.

Col. Harrison shook his head. "Sherlock isn't going to be too happy with you, John. You got yourself shot."

John glared at him. "You're enjoying this aren't you?" As he took in the Colonel's slight grin, he groaned. "Shit, you still have that camera running don't you?"

"Well, I was pretty certain that Sherlock would want to see that you were truly all right. So, yes."

"Great. Lovely." John sighed. Setting down the empty protein packet, he carefully reached out to inspect his body armor. It was quite obvious the bullet hit him at an angle that would have killed him had he not been wearing it.

The caliber of the bullet Roberts dropped into his hand explained the pain he was experiencing.

"We're going to have to take an x-ray to see what the damage is. It may just be deep tissue bruising, or some ribs, but with a former injury like yours, we shouldn't take chances," stated the nurse.

John moved gingerly to get off the table, but Col. Harrison put a firm hand on his chest, holding him in place.

"John, you need your leg checked out first."

"My leg?" John looked down to see front of both his legs covered with dried blood. "None of that's mine. It was Wilkinson's. I had… had to kneel in it to help Bill."

"Not all of it is his," Roberts said quietly.

"Roberts, what are you talk… Ahh… that hurts!" exclaimed John.

The nurse took off his boots as gently as possible. He saw the top of his left sock was stained with blood, but his right sock was saturated. Efficiently, the nurse slit both legs of his trousers from the knee down. Carefully, she peeled the fabric away from the calf of his right leg. John could see an angry looking wound there, still slowly leaking blood.

"Even better," he sighed. "I not only got shot once, but twice. I'm never going to live this down. Definitely too old to be doing this anymore."

Col. Harrison chuckled, "If it had been me, you'd have been carrying me back."

Despite the growing pain from his leg, John grinned at the image that produced.

Col. Harrison continued, "If I attempted to do all you did, well, I'd have killed myself coming down that cliff, first off. And the physical condition you were in after that, I couldn't have done it. We never even knew you were hurting at all until we took off your body armor."

"It's amazing what adrenalin can do, sir," John tried.

"Good. But not good enough. It wasn't adrenalin that got you out of there. You're tougher than you think you are. You are a hell of a soldier, a hell of a doctor and one hell of a friend to risk so much on a chance."

With that, Colonel Harrison came to attention and offered Captain John H. Watson a salute.

Stunned, John sat for a split second before struggling to his feet. Despite the nurse's spluttering protests, he came to attention and returned the salute.

Colonel Harrison dropped his hand and relaxed his stance. His eyes warmed and his face softened with a gentle smile.

"Now _young man_ you are going to listen to this nurse and lay back on the bed, and let her do her job. Do what you need to get yourself back on your feet for when Murray needs you."

"Roberts, would you stay with him?" he asked. When Roberts nodded, Col. Harrison let out a relieved breath. "All right. I'm going to get rid of these clothes and cleaned up. I'll be back for my physical. Should I send a few more of the team in as well?"

The nurse looked around and seeing she had several medics now free, she nodded and said, "Please. I would appreciate it while I have people to help me."

"Fine. How long will he be?" Col. Harrison asked, pointing to John.

"Considering the condition of this leg and needing x-rays, plus food and more fluids," she ignored John's groans of consternation, "I want him around at least two hours. Probably closer to three."

"Fine. He has someone who is expecting him to be in contact soon. I will let him know the time frame."

John watched helplessly as Col. Harrison walked away after grinning at him. As the nurse pulled a curtain around the bed and helped him strip down to his t-shirt and boxers to better assess his injuries, he couldn't help but think of Sherlock. He knew his friend had to have seen his insane escape from the insurgents, and the mess in the triage area. He could only imagine what Col. Harrison was saying before he turned off the camera.

That he'd kept running the whole time, damn him… Sherlock was going to kill him when they finally saw each other.

John closed his eyes against the electric lights above him and tried to ignore the new aches and pains that were making themselves known underneath the sharp burn emanating from his shoulder and upper back, and now his leg as well. His thoughts kept cycling between Murray and how he was doing, and Sherlock and what he must be thinking.

It wasn't until his thoughts started getting a bit muzzy that he realized the nurse had administered some morphine. Opening his eyes, he turned his head slightly to see Roberts still sitting next to him, waiting with him, the way their commanding officer wanted.

"Just rest, John." Roberts' voice was soft as the sound of other voices started to fill the tent. "The rest of the team is starting to come in for their checks. You need to rest a little bit, and you were in obvious pain. We're not going to be able to move you around for the x-ray or fix your legs up without hurting you otherwise."

John just nodded, too foggy to respond verbally, and let his eyes slip closed.

oOOooOOooOOo

Four hours later, John woke, finding his left arm in an immobilizer, and a thick bandage wrapped around his right leg.

Struggling to sit, he tried to get his right arm under him to push himself up. He hissed in pain as he bumped his left shoulder.

"Oh no you don't," said a nurse as she gently eased him back down.

"I want… I need to get up. I have to see Murray. And I have to talk to a friend. How long has it been since I was out?" John couldn't stop the worry blooming inside him.

"It's been four hours since you came in. Murray is still in surgery, and you aren't going anywhere yet."

"No you don't understand. I _need_ to…" Struggling against the nurse, John blanched and his face turned gray as a wave of pain caught him unexpectedly.

"What you _need_ to do is stay still and let me give you more morphine!" exclaimed the nurse.

"No more morphine!" insisted John. "I'm fine."

"Stop fighting it and let me help you. And I'll be the judge of whether your 'fine' or not. You're shaking, breaking out in a cold sweat, and are paler than the sheets you're on. Now I am giving you more morphine."

Before John could stop her, the nurse added a small dose of morphine to his IV, and despite himself, John could feel himself relax, a little.

"I want to sit up. I need to see Murray when he comes out." When the nurse hesitated, John added, "Please?"

Nodding, the nurse demanded that he let her raise the head of the bed, rather than him try to haul himself up. Agreeing to that, John let himself rest back against the pillows, once he could see the room better.

However, when the nurse attempted to give him more medication to fight the pain he was so obviously in, John started fighting her again. He didn't like morphine as it was, and he didn't want to be sedated any more than he had to be. He was determined to deal with the pain, but he could see she was just as determine to knock him out if she had to.

John gritted his teeth and prepared to argue with her again, when he heard a huff of laughter off to his side.

"I can see the saying is true. Doctors make the worst patients." Col. Harrison leaned against the edge of the door several beds away. He held a phone against his ear, listening. Nodding he said, "Just a moment."

"Nurse, may he take a phone call?" At her skeptical look, the Colonel grinned. "I think you may find that after this, he might be more willing to allow you to take care of him."

Before handing the phone to John, the Colonel explained. "I was grabbing your phone off your bunk to bring it to you. After five texts came through before I even left your tent, I decided to answer one to let the sender know I was bringing the phone to you. At which point the phone rang. I think you might want to take this one."

John groaned and dropped his head, even as he held out his right hand. He knew he was going to hear a rant on taking better care of himself.

"John."

"Sherlock…"

"No. Stop. Listen. You are going to take whatever bloody medicine the nurse wants to give you. I could hear the whole conversation."

Sherlock so rarely swore, John knew he was upset and worried about him.

"I would rather not be pumped full of pain killers and sedatives. You know I hate that!" John, frustrated with his lack of mobility, found himself starting to shake again as his anxiety increased.

"I understand that, John." John could hear the concern in his friend's voice. "However, you are on edge and tense. You're heightened level of irritability and argumentativeness I have seen before, mostly when you are in pain. You're also growing extremely anxious."

"But…"

"John, would you let her give you what you need to stop the pain, and maybe actually sleep for a while?" Sherlock asked.

"But I don't… I want to be awake… Hey, stop that!"

A deep chuckle sounded in John's ear as he felt more morphine take hold. "She took advantage of your distraction, didn't she?"

"Damn it. Yes. Sherlock…"

Sherlock interrupted him again. "We can talk later, and you know that Murray isn't going anywhere without you."

"I… but…" John sighed, knowing just by looking at Col. Harrison that he wasn't going to be any help either. "Fine."

"Good. Now rest, and text me when you wake up. I expect you to sleep, John." Sherlock's baritone was serious.

"All right, Sherlock. I'll try." John sighed again, then said goodbye. He knew it was for the best, but he really…

John's thoughts faded as the nurse picked up another syringe of medication and injected it into the port in his IV.

oOOooOOooOOo

The next few days passed in a blur for John. He spent most of his time at Murray's bedside or writing his portion of the report on the mission. He also went through one debriefing, though he knew he would have several more once he got back to Camp Bastion.

Murray's condition slowly improved. He wasn't stable enough to move back to Bastion, but he was able to stay awake longer, no longer needing to be intubated. Just that morning, John was able to actually hold a real conversation with him.

oOOooOOooOOo

"_What the hell are you doing here, John?" asked Murray. His voice was weak, but his gaze was focused and his eyes alert._

"_Well, I couldn't leave you to all the fun now, could I?" John grinned back at him._

_When Murray gave him a frustrated glare, John relented._

"_I saw in the paper, the names of a few of our team injured or killed from an ambush. Your name and Wilkinson's were mentioned as MIA. I knew what that meant." John suppressed a shudder at the memory._

"_Sherlock pressed me to talk about it after I avoided him for two days. I told him a bit about my experiences here, being on the special ops team with you, and what happened when I got shot. It helped him understand the article and connect it with me. And he came with me to the funeral…" John's voice trailed off, realizing that Murray didn't know._

"_Who, John?"_

"_Captain Evans."_

"_Damn." Murray turned his face away. _

_John could plainly see that Murray wanted to know who else, but couldn't handle it yet. He continued explaining about Col. Harrison approaching him after the funeral, the research and analysis of information, and his bid to be part of the rescue and recovery team._

_As they talked, John's mobile pinged with an incoming text. John pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at it and smiled before setting it on the table next to him._

"_Who…"_

"_Sherlock," John answered the unfinished question. "He didn't like me leaving. I don't know what his brother did to my mobile, but I'm receiving texts and even able to make phone calls out here. I don't think my mobile will ever be the same."_

_Murray smiled weakly and prompted John with a few questions here and there about his life back in London. It was enough to get him to spin tales to take Murray's mind off his own experiences for a while._

_John allowed himself to relax and hope Murray would drift off to sleep, and start the road to recovery._

_Then, all those hopes were shot to hell. _

oOOooOOooOOo

John limped out of the field hospital, heading for his bunk. Sitting down on the edge of it, he stared blankly at the floor. The rest of the team he'd gone on the mission with had already headed out, reuniting with their own teams or getting reassigned. Col. Harrison had left that morning.

All he wanted to do was stay close to Murray, but there was nothing he could add to what the doctors and nurses were already doing. He was just in the way.

After staring at the ground for a bit, he shook his head and knew he wasn't going to be able to rest, even though he hadn't slept the night before. Feeling a stab of pain from his shoulder and upper back, he realized that he was tensing up. John lifted his chin and set his jaw, slowing his breathing and wrestling down his emotions.

Feeling his mobile buzz in his pocket, John fished it out, swiping the screen to read the text.

**It's mid-afternoon and I haven't heard from you. S**

Seconds later another text came in.

**Are you all right? S**

**Is Murray all right? S**

A fourth text followed close on the heels of the first three.

**Are you on your way to Bastion? S**

John sighed and ran a hand over his face. Tucking his phone into his shirt pocket, he grabbed the cane he'd been given, and hauled himself to his feet. Limping across the camp, he headed for a more isolated corner, where a lone tree provided a bit of shade. Though it was hot enough that he immediately broke out in a sweat, John felt as if a piece of ice had lodged in his stomach somewhere.

Pulling out his phone he started to compose a text back to Sherlock. Pecking out a few letters, John's fingers stilled. He couldn't, didn't know how to, put into words what was going on. A text was too impersonal.

Before he could let himself think about it too hard, John deleted the text. Taking a deep, careful breath, John dialed the familiar number.

The strain from the mission and the last few days suddenly unlocked, and the swell of emotions caught him by surprise when John heard his friend's voice say his name.

oOOooOOooOOo

"John?"

"Sherlock." John's voice sounded choked and broken.

Sherlock had tensed when he'd seen John's number flash on his screen as an incoming call. They hadn't talked on the phone since just after the mission, when he'd urged John to listen to medical advice. They'd only texted back forth since then. He wasn't sure what had prompted John to actually call him, but he couldn't imagine it was a good thing.

"John?" Repeating John's name, Sherlock allowed his concern to bleed through.

For a minute or two, the only sound over their connection was John's ragged, uneven breathing.

"I… I'm sorry, but we won't be heading to Bastion today, Sherlock. I don't… don't know how long it will be before… Murray can be moved."

John's voice had gotten thick with emotion with his last words, and Sherlock's tension ratcheted up a notch.

"John, what happened? You said he was getting better." Sherlock asked.

It took a moment for John to wrestle his emotions back under control, but Sherlock waited patiently. He somehow knew that just being on the other end of the line was helping John calm himself. John had already told him that everyone else had gone, and the only one he really knew at the base was Murray.

He knew that as much as he wanted John home, John would be no more willing to leave Murray's side than he'd be willing to leave Sherlock's if he was the one in the hospital bed.

"He's developed an infection. Systemic. He just had so many injuries and had been there so long, it's not surprising, but his fever is dangerously high. They are pumping him full of antibiotics and medications to bring his fever under control. They're covering him with cooling blankets, giving him alcohol baths, and… and there's nothing I can do. I'm _worse_ than useless."

Sherlock's could hear the exhaustion, helplessness and frustration in John's voice. His brow furrowed. How was he supposed to help this far away? If John were here, he'd ply him with tea and food and force him to bed before he'd let him do anything else.

_Ah, of course. I can imagine he's not left his friend's bedside since he got back from the mission._

"John, when was the last time you slept?"

"Yesterday afternoon for a couple of hours in the chair next to Murray's bed. Just when I thought he was doing better… and I missed it!" John's voice was full of anguish. "I should have been awake and caught what was happening. I thought we were out of the woods, and that we were about ready to move him out."

"John, you can't blame yourself. Not after all you've done to get Murray this far. You _know_ that."

A deep sigh, with a slight hitch in it, was his only answer.

"Why don't you go back to your bunk? I'll stay on the phone with you for a while," Sherlock suggested, surprising himself with what he was willing to do for his friend.

A muffled "Can't" was his only response.

"You don't want anyone to see how you're doing right now," stated Sherlock

He heard a slightly hysterical giggle choked off before John spoke again.

"And… that's why I called you. You know what I'm thinking without my having to say everything."

Sherlock snorted at that. "This time, that's a good thing. Interesting. Sometimes, you tell me to get the hell out of your head."

That prompted a halfhearted laugh from John.

"So, can you tell me what happened, or what's going on in more detail? I mean, I know a fever isn't good, and an infection now isn't a good thing, but you sound as if it's more than that."

"Well," John started, "Murray went into cardiac arrest just before we reached the base. It was triggered by shock, mostly caused by dehydration and the massive blood loss. It put too much strain on his heart."

Sherlock closed his eyes, vividly remembering his friend's desperation to save Murray, how hard he'd fought to get back to Murray when he was pulled clear. "I saw," he whispered.

John sighed, sounding far older than his years. "If we can't get the fever down, and the infection under control, it's going to do the same thing. Put too much strain on his system and could cause his heart to arrest again."

"You mean, much like happened to you… when you were shot?" questioned Sherlock.

"Yes. Much like me."

Sherlock let the silence stretch for a minute, then changed the subject.

"John, not to minimize what's happening with Murray... but… how are you? I saw your descent down that cliff… incredible shooting, by the way… and your 'bloody spectacular adrenaline crash' as Harrison termed it, and the image of your wound, but..." Sherlock couldn't hide the growing tension and anxiety in his voice, not from John.

"I'm all right," John interrupted. "I wrenched my shoulder when I slid down that cliff face, trying to slow myself down enough to take a shot. The bullet hit my back as I was running toward cover, I think. I remember stumbling, but don't know if that was what caused it. My leg must have caught the bullet just as Roberts pulled me behind that outcropping. It all happened so fast, I honestly don't remember feeling it," John explained.

"I thought my shoulder was hurting from wrenching it, that's all. My right leg, well… I think I vaguely registered it was hurting, but chalked it up to the old injury. My left leg just needs a few bandages until the cuts and abrasions heal up. They were minor. My right leg was deep, but not as bad as it could have been. I needed stitches and it will take a bit to heal, as some of my calf muscle was damaged. I also have some abrasions on my left hand, when I dragged it to keep my balance."

"But what about your shoulder?" Sherlock asked. "You're avoiding talking about that."

"Yeah, well, that needs a bit of background," John stated.

"When I was originally shot, the bullet and the trauma it caused was quite severe. At first they thought it had hit an artery. I was extremely lucky where the bullet entered." John paused to take a deep breath before he continued.

Sherlock braced himself for whatever was coming.

"It shattered my collarbone, narrowly missed the subclavian artery, and with the angle, it nicked the edge of my scapula, and broke ribs as it exited."

Sherlock inhaled sharply between his teeth, realizing afresh how close John had come to losing his life. How close he'd come to never meeting him.

"This time, where bullet hit my body armor, it re-broke a couple of my upper ribs in my back, some of the same ones that had been pieced together before. My scapula is bruised but didn't break. The scar tissue has been, shall we say, aggravated, and everything is worse because all my muscles are tense around it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then said, "There's something else about your shoulder."

"Yeah, you'd pick up on that."

He heard the slight smile in John's voice.

"When I was originally shot, they had to piece my clavicle together in surgery. I have a plate screwed into it, reinforcing it. We are taking an x-ray each day to make sure that none of the screws loosen, and nothing was jarred from the impact of the bullet."

"John…" Sherlock was horrified to hear his voice quiver slightly. He knew John would pick up on it.

"It's fine, I promise. It's still painful to move, though it's vastly improved in just three days. I'm keeping my arm in a sling just to remind myself not to use it too much until it's healed more. I'm fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to swallow down his concern. "That's why you are so careful in the cold weather. Why you wear so many layers and those awful jumpers."

John chuckled a little. "They're not awful. They're comfortable."

Sherlock let the silence between them stretch, able to tell that just talking had helped John slowly calm down.

After a minute and twenty two seconds, John sighed. "I think I might be able to head back to my bunk now."

"Good," smiled Sherlock. "Will you try at least, to get some sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah I will." John sighed again, and Sherlock could hear him struggling to his feet, hissing as he most likely jostled his shoulder.

"Take some pain medication too, John. You're not doing yourself, or anyone, any good by suffering through it."

"I don't need…"

"John," Sherlock warned.

"Fine. I'll take something." John relented, clearly knowing Sherlock wasn't going to let it go.

"Good." Sherlock smiled to himself, then let his voice warm up from the commanding tone he'd been using. "Go sleep. Keep me posted on Murray."

"I will, and Sherlock… thanks."

"You're welcome, John."

Sherlock hung up the phone. Grabbing his laptop, he settled on the sofa and started researching systemic infections and high fevers and how they affected stressed, and already weakened, bodies. He needed to know more of what John was seeing.

Then he grabbed John's laptop and started a search on shoulder surgeries, looked up anatomy diagrams, and investigated the complications of a bullet passing through someone's shoulder. He needed to see exactly where the bullet had passed through John.

He wanted to understand. More than that, he _needed_ to _know._

oOOooOOooOOo

The next four days passed with hundreds more text messages back and forth between the two friends. Many were updates on John's own healing as well as Murray's. Others detailed information on a case that Lestrade brought to Sherlock. It forced him out of the house, but he missed having John by his side.

It wasn't perfect, but texting him the details, and some pictures of the crime scenes and victim, helped Sherlock sort out his thoughts. He knew that feeding the information to him helped John take his mind off of other things.

When John asked a few questions via the text messages and mentioned something he had seen in one of the pictures, it spurred Sherlock to pursue a slightly different angle, which in the end helped solve the case.

Just as he was about to text John, or maybe even call him with the results of the case, when he got a text from John.

**Sherlock, if all holds, Murray and I will be flying back to Bastion tomorrow morning. J**

**Really? S**

**Yes. His temperature is near normal, and the infection is under control. Not gone, but under control… finally. J**

**I'm glad, John. S**

**Me too. J**

**So, how is the case? J**

**Solved. I was just about to text you to let you know. S**

**What happened? J**

**Even with you all the way in Afghanistan, you are still a conductor of light. S**

…

…

**Are you… when was the last time you slept? J**

**I'm serious. Your questions and your comment about the photo helped me think about it from a different angle. S**

**You did help. S**

**Ok. I want details. Tell me what happened. J**

Sherlock proceeded to explain the case and his deductions. John's admiration and amazement was apparent even through texts. Finally, John had to go, but not before he promised to text Sherlock before they lifted off, and again once they landed at Bastion.

oOOooOOooOOo

John sat next to the bed of his friend, grinning from ear to ear. He and Murray were bantering back and forth, and it was so good to hear his friend's voice almost normal again.

When the doctor came by that evening after they'd gotten settled in the orthopedic ward, he walked through the things they were going to do to Murray's arm and leg to get him on the road to healing.

John teased Murray afterward, "You're going to set off every metal detector between here and London on your way home, with all the plates and screws you're going to have imbedded in you!"

"Ha! Thanks so much. It's not like you don't do the same thing now! Though, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have the chance," Murray said, gratitude coloring his voice.

John tried to wave him off, but Murray was having none of it.

"I know you don't like hearing it, John. But I _know_ who came in and kicked that bucket over, who killed the guy who…" He cleared his throat, then continued. "I know at least a few of the things you did to get us out of those caves. I already heard about your sliding down the face of a cliff. And the CPR. And ignoring your own injuries."

"How in the world…"

"Roberts is here at Bastion too. He visited a bit when you had to step out. He said he'd be back to fill in more details later."

"Oh, good grief! Well don't believe everything he says. You know he likes to stretch the truth," John tried to deflect.

"Yeah, but you didn't have to come back here to get me."

John just shook his head. "You know I had to. You came after me. Then you helped save me when I was shot. Knowing you were captured, I just couldn't leave it. I had to do something."

Murray smiled and let it go for the time being, pretending not to notice John's sigh of relief.

"So when are you heading out?" he asked.

"I have a debriefing in the morning tomorrow. My departure depends on when that finishes, and if I get into trouble for sharing highly classified information, even if it was rather… edited. I am hoping I can convince them it was necessary to share. I had no idea what we'd be facing as we tried to leave the tunnels, and I really only shared the information with Col. Harrison."

"Yeah, and Sherlock, and his brother, right?" Murray questioned. He grinned as John nodded, rubbing his forehead.

"I'm gonna be lucky to get out of this debriefing alive, aren't I?" John joked.

Murray chuckled, then groaned. "Oh, don't make me laugh!"

John grinned, delighted he'd been able to.

"I'd like to catch a flight out tomorrow afternoon, but I may have to wait until the next day. I just don't know yet." John ran his hand roughly through his hair. "I don't want to leave you, but at the same time, I need to get home soon. I don't know how much longer I dare leave Sherlock on his own."

Murray started laughing, even as John tried to explain how lucky he was that their flat was still standing.

They talked for a while longer, until Murray finally fell asleep. John stayed awake, watching, afraid to stop monitoring his condition. However, when he felt his eyes threatening to close with exhaustion, one of the nurses took pity on him and told him to take the empty bed next to Murray. Settling himself gingerly, shifting until his shoulder and leg were relatively comfortable, he drifted off, his eyes still fixed on Murray's sleeping face.

* * *

_a/n: Hope this hit all the questions you had! :) _

_Please read and review... your comments are what help me improve! Let me know if you see any inconsitencies with my stories, as they are all in the same 'verse. Thanks and Blessings!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Days later…**

Finally, John's plane landed at Heathrow and taxied to the gate. Sherlock waited impatiently, hidden behind a pillar, watching as the passengers started to disembark. After watching families and individuals slowly trail out of the gate, Sherlock saw several soldiers in combat fatigues walk out together. They paused outside the gate obviously finishing a conversation. Then the female and the taller, dark haired male saluted the shorter blond, who returned them with a snappy salute of his own. They exchanged a few more words, shook hands, and parted ways.

Sherlock had picked his location so that, as John left the other passengers and moved towards baggage claim and the exit of the terminal, he'd be walking toward him. Sherlock could see his face clearly as he scanned the crowd. John had, in his comparatively short time away, tanned under the desert sun, but something more than that made him appear different.

It took Sherlock a moment before he placed it. In his dress uniform John looked every inch the officer. In his combat fatigues he looked every inch the soldier. Wearing a navy beret with the red tip feather hackle of the Fusiliers, John walked with a crisp step, even while limping. Despite his short stature, his compact, powerful frame caught many eyes as he made his way through the terminal.

But he was thinner than when he left. Stress and worry had marked his face, and the lines around his eyes were deepened by exhaustion and pain.

It was John's eyes that drew Sherlock's attention after his initial observations. Though he was still some distance away, they eyes were bright as he looked around the waiting area hopefully.

John's gaze settled on a few people, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock examined the same people John focused on, and realized they were Mycroft's men. He smiled to himself, proud that his friend was observant enough to spot them.

However, as he continued to watch John, he saw him sigh, and his shoulders drop slightly. John's eyes, though still alert, looked… sad. Sherlock didn't have another word to describe the change in expression. He didn't understand, until John reached into breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his mobile and checked its screen. Then he realized John had been looking for someone to meet him. He wondered who John could have possibly anticipated meeting him, unless…

…of course. Lestrade.

Except, as far as he knew John hadn't contacted him and Sherlock certainly hadn't told him when John was flying in.

Then who…

Sherlock's mobile vibrated. He almost ignored it, then decided to check it while keeping an eye on John.

**Do you have a case today? J**

Sherlock read the text twice. Blinking at John, he saw him with his mobile in hand, still glancing around the airport.

_Could he have been looking for… me? He wants to know if I have a case… well, I suppose it could be called a case, as I do have a puzzle to solve._

**Yes, I do. S**

Sherlock watched as John looked down as his mobile received the text. A moment later, John limped to a tall table off to the side of the main traffic, set his bag down at his feet and sat on a stool. Painstakingly, he typed out a reply.

**Is there something I can do to help? J**

Sherlock looked down at his mobile, then back up at John. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He didn't understand. His friend had just returned from a war zone where he'd been injured.

John was obviously exhausted, unable to sleep on the plane flights. His shoulder and ribs were causing extreme discomfort. He had gone without a cane, but his leg was making it more and more difficult to get around.

Yet, he was offering to help on a case?!

Sherlock stood, his mobile in hand, watching as John typed out another text.

**I just landed at Heathrow. Where do you need me to go from here? Where should I meet you? J**

When Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his hand, he looked down at the message his friend sent him. He frowned at his mobile, unsure of what to say. Thinking for a moment, he looked around him as an idea formed.

**Stay where you are. I may have something for you at the airport. I will give you more information momentarily. S**

Watching John's reaction to his incoming text was worth waiting a few moments. John straightened up and, keeping his mobile on the table in front of him, focused his attention on the people moving around him.

oOOooOOooOOo

Five minutes later, Sherlock approached John with a paper cup in his hand. Still behind John, who was unaware of his presence, he paused. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock walked into John's peripheral vision.

"Welcome home, John." As John turned towards him, surprise was evident on his face. "Would you like some tea? It isn't as good as yours, but the best I could do on short notice," Sherlock finished in a rush.

"Sherlock?! What… How… I thought you…" John looked at him confused.

Sherlock maintained his calm, keeping his face blank as John looked him over. Sherlock took the opportunity to do the same. He realized that the sadness that had been in John's expression before had disappeared. His eyes had brightened again and, as his confusion cleared, he appeared happy.

_Had John really hoped I would be here? His reaction to finding me here certainly supports that theory. Sentiment. There are too many variables, even with someone I know like John._

John smiled warmly at him. "You've been here for a while, haven't you?" John asked.

Sherlock inclined his head. "I have." Taking a deep breath as he handed off the cup of tea, he continued. "I was here to watch you disembark, but didn't want to be… near the gate." He was still relieved he hadn't. "Too much sentiment." He pulled a face, causing John to laugh.

John gladly accepted the tea, relaxing on the stool he perched on. Sherlock claimed the stool on the other side of the table from him. Now that he sat across from him, Sherlock noted something else. John had relaxed entirely in Sherlock's presence, but there seemed to be something… brittle about him. Though he kept it hidden from John, it made Sherlock nervous.

"You're right about that, Sherlock. Besides, I had a greeting committee, sent by Mycroft… though they didn't actually say 'welcome home' like you did." John grinned at him, then ducked his head and took a sip of tea.

"Oh… that is good," sighed John. "You'd think that the British army would be able to make a decent cup of tea. I took to drinking coffee while I was gone, only because I swear the brown water they called tea hadn't ever had a tea leaf near it!" John sighed again as he took another drink.

Sherlock chuckled at the expression of bliss on his friend's face. "When you are finished, why don't we head back to Baker Street and you can make a whole pot of tea? I haven't had a decent cuppa since you left either."

John glanced up at him sharply. "What about the case you said you were on? Do you have something we need to work on, or leads to follow?"

"Ah. Yes. The case." Sherlock cleared his throat and found the crowd moving around them suddenly very interesting. "It seems… I have… solved it already."

"Oh?" John's voice perked up and he leaned forward slightly. "Tell me about it."

Still examining the crowd, sitting straight and stiff, Sherlock continued, "It involved someone attempting to determine the best way to approach their friend, when said friend had been gone for over two weeks to a war zone, where they'd gotten shot… twice."

Realizing his voice had gained tension as he listed off things at the end, he wrestled it under control. "As I said, I seem to have solved the problem."

He risked a look at John and saw John's eyes sparkling with humor and understanding.

"You git," John laughed, his voice full of affection. "Saying 'welcome home' and a cup of tea was definitely a superior solution. I was hoping to see you… soon after landing in London."

John paused as if he were going to say more, but stopped himself. Sherlock wondered what he was going to say.

_Did he think I would have been completely uninterested in his coming home? After all our texts back and forth and the phone calls, is he still insecure about our friendship? I thought I was the only… _Sherlock stopped that train of thought._ What is causing John's hesitance? Something I did? Something in his past?_

Lightening his voice, John mentioned, "And it looks like London has decided to welcome me back from the hot, dry desert, with a lovely, cold rain." One side of his mouth quirked up. "So much for getting back to Baker Street without aggravating anything." John gestured to his shoulder and leg with one hand.

"Well, let's go then, before the weather gets worse. We have the place to ourselves tonight. Mrs. Hudson is off to her sister's until tomorrow. So, you'll have to deal with the meal that Angelo offered to put together for us."

John's face lit up. "That sounds great! I haven't had Italian in a while. Though…" John paused as if he was unsure about something. "um… I'm not sure I feel like eating out."

"Oh no, that's not a problem. He told me to call him when we got to the flat and he would send Billy over with a meal for us." Sherlock, seeing John's hesitance hoped that would make John more at ease. He relaxed immediately at John's reaction.

"Perfect!" John exclaimed. "I'm dying to take a hot shower."

Getting to his feet, Sherlock picked up John's bag, "Are you ready?"

John nodded gamely and stood. Sherlock saw him cover a wince as he limped to the nearby bin to get rid of his empty cup. As they turned and headed for the exit, Sherlock purposely placed himself close to John's left side to keep others from bumping against his injured shoulder.

Judging from the faint grin on his face, John knew what Sherlock was doing, but he never said a word. He just carefully tucked his left hand into his jacket pocket, to help hold it still, and fell into step next to him. Sherlock shortened his stride and slowed his pace to allow John to easily match him.

With John at his side, even though he was injured, things felt as if they falling into place again. Flinging up an arm to summon a cab, Sherlock let a small smile creep across his face.

oOOooOOooOOo

Giving in, John dug out his old cane, and limped slowly down the stairs. The hot shower had aggravated the wound on his leg a bit, but the resulting feeling of cleanliness was more than worth it. Feeling a measure of peace for the first time in several weeks, John let himself relax as the familiar sights and smells of their flat surrounded him.

He stopped short in the doorway of the kitchen, gaping at the table. It was actually clean of any experiments and Sherlock had set it for dinner, with real plates, silverware and… was that cloth napkins?

Slowly stepping into the kitchen, he shut his mouth at Sherlock's pleased smile. On the opposite end from where their places were set, John gently set down his hand gun, wrapped in a soft cloth.

"How long before we eat?" he asked. Sherlock studied him and told him it would be twenty minutes.

John nodded, knowing that he had enough time to do what he needed.

Spreading out the cloth he started field stripping his gun. Well aware of how closely Sherlock was watching him, he focused himself on the job at hand.

"Why are you doing that?" questioned Sherlock.

"I need to clean my gun again. Now that I'm away from any and all sand, I need to make sure there isn't any left in the gun. These things are made to handle just about anything. However, I want to make sure that now that I'm out of Afghanistan, all of Afghanistan is out of my gun." John didn't look up to gauge Sherlock's reaction.

He hoped he didn't have to explain. Hanging his dress uniform in the back of his wardrobe, hiding away his boots and combat fatigues, and cleaning his gun thoroughly all were part of what he needed to do. It was his way of drawing a line and reminding himself it was over now.

Judging by the way Sherlock quietly sat down near him, John thought he might understand.

oOOooOOooOOo

Eating together, and hearing Sherlock tell him stories of what had happened while he was gone, John slowly realized he was truly back. After he'd eaten only a small portion of his meal, John pushed his plate away. Picking up his tea, he used it to swallow down the pills he'd stuck in the pocket of his dressing gown.

At Sherlock's pointed look, John just shook his head. "I can't eat any more, as good as it is. I ate enough to take my pain meds and antibiotic, but that's all I can manage for the moment."

When Sherlock could see he was serious, he rose and took the plates to the counter, packed the food into containers, and stored them away in the refrigerator. When he turned back, John already had the left leg of his pajamas pulled up and was removing the few dressings there.

"Thanks," he said gratefully when Sherlock pulled the med kit out from under the sink and placed it on the table next to him.

Sherlock batted John's hands away. "Here. Let me do that. A couple of those are difficult for you to reach."

John sat back and let his friend gently peel away the gauze, disinfect the wounds and put antibiotic cream on them, before bandaging them up again.

As Sherlock reached for his right leg, John stopped him.

"Wait, please. I'd like to be a bit more comfortable first," he insisted. He wasn't sure he was ready for Sherlock to see this one. His stomach was getting in knots again and he tried to swallow down the sudden anxiety.

Sherlock acquiesced, and John accepted his help to get up and over to his chair in the sitting room. John hated this anxiety that had started kicking up. He hadn't had this since just after he'd returned from Afghanistan the first time.

However, after Sherlock added more wood to the fire, John felt himself relax as he warmed up and the pain meds started to kick in.

Finally, John looked over at his friend across from him. Sherlock was perched on his chair, his feet tucked up under him. His elbows rested on his knees and his fingertips pressed lightly against his lips. Under his dark curls hanging over his face, his silvery eyes gleamed in the firelight as he watched John.

John amazingly found himself relaxing even more under his scrutiny. He shifted slightly until his shoulder settled a little more comfortably. In return, he studied his friend.

He noted Sherlock's hands were trembling slightly, though Sherlock tried to hide it by pressing them together. He also could see Sherlock's face was thinner, his cheekbones a bit more prominent, and bones of his wrists, peeking out of the cuffs of his shirt seemed sharper as well. The dark smudges under his eyes spoke volumes as well. His friend hadn't slept or eaten any better than he had during his absence.

John grinned at the surprise in Sherlock's eyes when he realized John reading him and making deductions of his own. He kept his observations to himself for the time being. He could only wonder what Sherlock was seeing and deducing, as he allowed Sherlock to read him as well.

Knowing he couldn't put it off any longer, John said, "All right, Sherlock, go ahead," gesturing to his leg. "Just know it is going to look worse than it really is."

John leaned back in his chair, watching Sherlock as he knelt and gently rested his heel on his leg. Carefully, Sherlock rolled back the right leg of his pajama bottoms to expose the bandaging, still damp from his shower.

"John, you always told me that it wasn't good to keep the bandages on after a shower, but to change them right away." Sherlock looked up at him accusingly.

"I know… that's what I should have done." John sighed, feeling his mood start to sour unexpectedly. "But frankly, I didn't care enough to deal with it all at the time."

Sherlock didn't say any more, but his brow furrowed with concern. John felt Sherlock's cool fingers gently and deftly unwrap the outer layers of gauze to reveal the dressing underneath. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock's face when he saw the actual wound. The bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his calf, only damaging some muscle. However, because he'd run on it unknowingly for so long, an infection had already started by the time he got treatment. They'd had to make an extra incision to clean it up well and help it drain. Everything was stitched together now, but it was obvious it was more serious than he'd originally made it out to be.

Sherlock's breath hitched after he pulled the last of the bandages away and got a good look at it. Shifting slightly so he could see better, he shook his head.

"John," he breathed. "This is why you're taking oral antibiotics."

"Yeah. It's fine. I'm fine, or I will be." John rubbed at his face tiredly, then sat forward a bit and craned his neck for a better look at it. "We'd probably better let it air out for a bit before it gets bandaged up again." Easing himself back again, he groaned a bit. "Damn, I'm tired."

"A better word might be exhausted," stated Sherlock. "You've been running on very little food or sleep for nearly two weeks. You don't do well without either for a few days, so you have pushed yourself beyond your physical limits. You have also been subjected to extreme mental and emotional stress."

John flicked his eyes over Sherlock briefly, before gazing back into the fire.

"So? What does that mean, then?" He struggled to keep himself where he was, rather than retreat to his room, suddenly feeling too exposed.

Sherlock's hands tightened slightly on John's foot and ankle still in his lap. It was obvious he had seen John's desire to flee. He wasn't restraining John, but by not letting go of him, Sherlock made it clear that he hoped he'd stay.

He spoke again, his voice gentle as he picked his words carefully. "You're going to find yourself falling into a black mood of your own. You… you already are… and you're going to need to sleep for days." Sherlock frowned. "And you're going to struggle with some very difficult nightmares."

John heaved a gusty sigh, closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the chair. "Correct on all counts. It seems odd, but I was able to shove it all back until I got here. Now that I'm in my own chair, it's all crashing in on me."

"Why would that be odd? This is your home, and somewhere safe… yes, even with me in it…" Sherlock's voice took on a slightly dry edge when John cracked open one eye to look at him, causing John to let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Why wouldn't you be able to let go a bit, now that you're home after all you've experienced?" Sherlock asked.

John could hear the honest desire to understand in Sherlock's voice. He opened both eyes and stared at the ceiling as he struggled to put into words what he was only just starting to realize himself.

"I've never had a place that felt like a real home." John heard his voice start to tremble, but forced himself to keep going. "I've never lived somewhere it was safe to relax, not before now. Even… even as a… a kid, our house wasn't… it wasn't safe to let our guard down. So, I've really never been able to let go… not… not like this."

His voice got rougher as he continued. "I haven't been taken care of by a family member… or friend… in so long… I don't… I…"

"I… I've never been… met by someone… at the airport when I came back on leave… even when I was invalided out and discharged," whispered John.

"That's why you were so surprised to see me there," Sherlock realized. "I was right. You were hoping, but not seriously expecting it."

John heard a hint of tightly controlled fury in Sherlock's voice. Looking down at where he was still kneeling on the floor with his foot in his lap, John could see a simmering anger darken his eyes. Anger on his behalf.

"I'm sorry, John," was all Sherlock murmured. But at that moment, those simple words conveyed all John needed to hear.

John gave Sherlock a small nod, unable to speak around the growing lump in his throat. He tightened his grip on the arms of his chair. Feeling his eyes begin to burn, John turned his head away again and stared blindly into the fire.

He knew Sherlock could tell he was on the verge of tears. The extreme stress of the last few weeks, the weariness, and his crashing mood all contributed to him saying far more than he'd originally intended.

He felt Sherlock gently ease his foot off his lap and set it on the floor. Unable to meet his eyes, John could hear him get up, then felt his hand rest lightly on his good shoulder for a moment.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

John managed a slight nod and he felt Sherlock give his shoulder a gentle squeeze before his presence left the room. He tried to get his emotions in check, but completely undone by Sherlock's unexpected compassion, John raised a shaking hand to his mouth to attempt to muffle the sob that rose up past his defenses. He couldn't stop traitorous tears from slipping down his face.

oOOooOOooOOo

After a time, John heard Sherlock start to come through the kitchen. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed roughly at his eyes. Taking a couple of deep, shaky breaths, he tried to collect himself.

Still behind him, Sherlock asked, "Would heat be best for your shoulder right now?"

"Yeah." John paused to clear his throat before he continued. "It will help relax my muscles a bit, if nothing else."

"Good." Sherlock came around the side of John's chair. "I took the liberty of putting an extra blanket on your bed, and setting up the heating pad in there for you. Your room is quite cool at the moment." Gesturing at John's leg as he knelt and lifted it onto a pillow in his lap to see what he was doing, "Does this need icing and elevation once it's bandaged?"

John nodded. "It probably should. It's swollen and still inflamed. After all day walking or sitting on planes…" He let the sentence trail off.

"I'll bring some cushions upstairs once we get this taken care of," Sherlock stated.

John kept his peace as Sherlock's nimble fingers gently applied antibiotic cream to the angry, red wound on John's leg. He didn't know what to say.

Sherlock's uncharacteristic attention to him and his willingness to take care of him surprised him. He'd anticipated that he'd not see Sherlock until he got to the flat, and that he'd have to fend for himself for dinner, before falling into bed. He couldn't believe how wrong he'd been.

John knew some of what he was feeling was the stress let down from the mission. However, being the sole focus of Sherlock's attention was overwhelming. It was good, but entirely unexpected.

Therefore, he was unprepared for the relief he felt at being able to step out of his normal caretaker role. It shocked him with its intensity.

He realized he hadn't felt this cared for since his Gran died when he was nine. His father had died when he was fourteen, and just before he entered university, his mum had too. And Harry, well she'd followed their father's path to alcoholism.

He'd had friends, like Stamford or other classmates who he'd hung out with and studied with. People on the football team who were mates. But he hadn't had a closer friend until he was in the service and met Bill Murray as they trained together. Then his special ops team, including Bill, had become his family. When he was shot and sent back to London, he thought he'd never find that again.

Here, in this flat; with this person most people thought was either insane, a psychopath, or a freak; John had found a home. It seemed impossible, but for some reason this extraordinary genius considered him worth the effort of attempting to learn how to be a friend. Oh, there had been many false starts and miscommunications, but Sherlock kept trying. For some reason, he seemed to want to.

John shook his head slightly, seeing an example right in front of him. He decided to commit it to memory… for when the kitchen exploded and he'd doubt his intentions.

Sherlock's head was bent over his leg, his brow furrowed in concentration. The shifting shadows of the firelight glinted off his dark curls and lent a hint of warm color to his face as he focused on carefully taping a gauze pad in place. He sensed John's scrutiny and looked up. His hands paused in their work as Sherlock held his gaze, observing every detail. John didn't object. He was too tired, and he'd bared so much of himself tonight already, he didn't really care what else Sherlock read.

Sherlock's eyes were warm with concern. John managed a small, sad smile before Sherlock bent back over his work on John's leg.

John rested his head back against the chair as Sherlock finished by wrapping gauze around his leg to further hold the bandage in place. John almost fell asleep right there, and it took him several minutes to realize that Sherlock had finished his task.

As he blinked up at him, he realized Sherlock was holding out his hand to him, obviously expecting to help him up out of his chair.

He hesitated for a moment.

Sherlock looked at him with a bit of exasperation before he spoke.

"You know that sometimes you have to accept help from others. That doesn't make you helpless. In fact, helpless would be the last word I would use to describe you, John Watson." Sherlock sounded so definite and assured, John couldn't find the energy to argue with him and point out how many times he'd been helpless in the last couple of weeks.

From the look in his eyes, Sherlock knew what he was thinking and was preparing arguments to refute every single one.

Instead of speaking, John reached up and grabbed onto Sherlock's hand and allowed him to pull him to his feet. When he staggered slightly, Sherlock's hand steadied him. He glared at John when he attempted to grab his cane. Instead, Sherlock wrapped an arm carefully around John's waist, lending his shoulder as support all the way up the stairs.

By the time John was lowered carefully onto his bed, he was trembling with exhaustion. Sherlock helped settle the heating pad in the correct spot under his shoulder. Then very gingerly, he placed pillows and cushions under John's leg in a way that didn't put pressure on his wound, yet still elevated it. Precisely strapping a cold pack to it, he covered John with his duvet and the extra blanket.

"That won't be able to be on more than…" John began, before Sherlock interrupted him.

"I know, no more than twenty to thirty minutes." Sherlock pulled John's desk chair next to the bed and sat down. "I'll make sure it comes off by then." Reaching out, he clicked off the lamp on John's desk.

Enough light came though the partially open door to illuminate the side of Sherlock's face as he slouched down in the chair and rested his feet on the edge of John's bed.

"You… you can… leave for a bit… if you want… until the ice pack has to come off," John suggested. He really didn't want Sherlock to, but he didn't want him to feel he had to stay either.

In the dark, John couldn't identify the emotion that flitted across Sherlock's face.

"I will leave, if you would like me to. However, I would prefer to stay, for a little while, if it doesn't bother you," Sherlock replied.

John shifted slightly in bed until he was leaning more on his right side, taking pressure off his other shoulder. "No, please stay if… you want. I'm not gonna be much company… just not worth much…" The rest of John's sentence got swallowed by a yawn.

"That is rather what I was hoping, John. You need to sleep. I'll make sure the ice pack comes off at the right time, and that the heating pad gets turned off as well." Sherlock's voice became much quieter. "You're always taking care of me. I'd like to return the favor."

John heaved a shaky sigh, feeling tears threatening again.

"All right, Sherlock. But if you get bored, please don't experiment on me," he tried to joke.

He felt himself sinking into the pillows and letting go of the conscious world to the resonant chuckle of his friend.

"I'd never do that, John. At least, not while you're sleeping." Sherlock's voice held the hint of a smile.

John attempted to answer him, but was too far gone to manage more than a vague mumble before he lost the battle.

Just before he was went under he barely caught the words, "You're worth more than you know, John."

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock watched John finally give up the fight and relax, allowing himself to sleep. He had been relieved to see John walk off that plane today. However the longer he spent with John, the more his concern mounted.

He shook his head at the endurance of the man. After all he'd been through in the last two months, he'd exhibited signs of the strain and stress, to the point of occasional emotional outbursts.

But tonight was the first time John had shown signs of breaking. From the time he'd stepped off the plane, there was something that Sherlock couldn't exactly pin point. Normally, Sherlock didn't have any perception when it came to emotional issues. He relied on John to help him with that. But today, he somehow to intuitively knew that John was brittle and fragile and Sherlock had to handle him with care.

He must have done something right. Because when John's defenses cracked, he allowed Sherlock to witness a portion of his brokenness. Though his ability to filter his words and thoughts were almost entirely stripped away, John didn't stopped talking or walk away, the way he sometimes did. He trusted Sherlock enough to give him the unique opportunity to gain some insight into his friend

And when it got too much for him, when John couldn't handle exposing himself any more than he had, Sherlock actually had the sense, for once, to retreat and give him some space. He'd been well aware that the last of John's control was shattering and it would have been too much for his friend to have him watch as he tried to regain his composure.

However, when Sherlock left him alone, he headed for the stairs. He hadn't wanted to go too far, in case he was needed, but wanted to give John some privacy, at least. So he decided to get John's room ready for him, knowing how the cold and damp affected his injuries.

A muffled noise from the sitting room made him pause with his foot on the first stair. Slowly Sherlock pivoted to watch from where he could see a portion of John's face without him being aware. He saw the tears that slipped down his cheeks, heard another half-sob before John's hand pressed hard against his mouth, and observed the clenching of his jaw as he reached for his control again.

Only then did Sherlock head upstairs to prepare John's room for him.

Sherlock knew John was raw and exposed right now, vulnerable in a way he normally didn't show. The two week mission in Afghanistan had been extremely demanding both physically and emotionally.

But it had also dredged up memories of a trauma John had endured his first time there. What it was, Sherlock wasn't certain, though he hoped John would tell him, but he knew it contributed heavily to the fragile state of the normally reserved man.

From John's emotional reaction to Sherlock's clumsy attempts to help and comfort, it was obvious no one had tried to return the care John so freely gave to others. At least, not for a long time. John had admitted as much, to Sherlock's surprise.

His surprise turned to shock when John revealed why he hadn't expected to see Sherlock at the airport. Sherlock could barely contain his anger at the thought of John returning to London alone, with no one to meet him. Especially after he'd been shot and discharged. He was grateful that he'd been desperate enough to see John that he'd been there this time for him.

To know that John thought of their flat as his first real home, made Sherlock pause. He knew that John needed stability as much as he needed to feel useful, needed the thrill of a challenge. Finding out that John found that stability with him, of all people, and in their flat, where he regularly experimented and blew things up…

Sherlock had never had someone trust him that much before.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead with one hand. He was giving himself a headache attempting to make sense of everything.

Keeping track of the time, he pulled back the blankets long enough to remove the ice pack. John was so deeply asleep, he never stirred. Sherlock brushed John's sweat dampened bangs off his forehead before carefully leaning over him to switch off the heating pad.

Settling back in the chair, he thought back to the expressions he had seen flit across John's face while he'd been treating his leg. He had been able to tell the moment John had relaxed and submitted to his tending. Sherlock remembered the warmth and relief in John's eyes as he let go of whatever he'd been holding on to.

Sherlock reflected on the multiple things he had learned about John, just in the short time he'd been home. John constantly surprised him with new little details that added dimension to his character. Each one revealed left Sherlock with more questions than before. Sherlock was certain of two things. One, John was fascinating. Two, Sherlock would never get bored with his friend.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock stayed in the room with John until he was sure that he'd gone through one cycle of REM sleep without a nightmare. Satisfied he'd stay asleep for at least twelve more hours, Sherlock slipped out of his room and down the stairs.

He glanced around the sitting room, then gathered the medical supplies, put them back in the kit and stowed the kit under the kitchen sink again. Walking through to his room, he changed into his pajamas and dressing gown before wandering back to the sitting room.

Settling on the sofa, Sherlock stretched out, closed his eyes and entered his Mind Palace. Walking briskly to the room specifically designated for John, he opened the door. He marveled at the amount of information that now lay within the walls. Just a few weeks ago, it was far too empty. Now he had hours of work to organize it and catalogue it.

Sherlock started filling books with what he'd already processed. Other items he carefully placed in file folders to be looked at later, before they were transferred to books of their own. Snapshots of John appeared as pictures on the walls of the room. Now the walls became decorated with more than just images of John as "Doctor" and "Friend." Now there were images forever burned into Sherlock's memory of him as "Soldier" and "Sniper," as well as "Hero."

oOOooOOooOOo

Looking around and seeing the room had been cleaned up, with a flick of his fingers, he left the room and then his Mind Palace. Before he even opened his eyes, he sensed a change in the room.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned his head and opened his eyes to find his brother sitting in his chair across the room, holding the handle of his umbrella and twirling it slightly.

Nodding toward the stairs Mycroft asked, "How is he?"

"Exhausted and sleeping soundly. For now." Sherlock picked up his mobile to look at the time. "He should sleep for at least another eight hours or so before he wakes. I plan on trying to get him to eat and stay up at least a few hours before he tries to sleep again."

"You know the nightmares will be triggered again by this."

"Yes, Mycroft. I am aware of that," snapped Sherlock as he rose to his feet. Stalking to the kitchen he forced himself to be civil and offered his brother tea.

Refusing, Mycroft sighed. "I came to inform you despite my attempts otherwise, we have been unable to retain any video or audio recording of the rescue operation. I also have been unable to track down any information on the tattoo John saw."

"It is fortunate we have everything up here then," replied Sherlock, tapping his forehead, and indicating Mycroft's as well.

"Indeed," agreed Mycroft. "Filed away?"

"Of course." Sitting down in John's chair across from his brother, Sherlock studied him with narrowed eyes.

"There is more," he stated.

Mycroft sighed again and avoided Sherlock's eyes. Staring into the fire he spoke quietly, even though John was still sleeping and there was a whole flight of stairs between them.

"I haven't been able to track Moriarty since the trial."

"It's been over six weeks, Mycroft! Surely with your vast resources you have found something?" Sherlock fought a rising tide of exasperation and frustration.

"I have heard rumors, and rumors of rumors, however, there has been nothing I can pin down. He is planning something. I have heard enough to know something big is coming, and soon. But I don't know what it is, or if we will have much of a warning." Mycroft met Sherlock's eyes finally, and Sherlock could see no hint of falsehood, or misleading.

Letting out a sigh of his own, Sherlock said, "You will let me know as soon as you hear something."

"Yes. Of course. It was a risk giving him such personal information. You know he is obsessed with you," Mycroft warned.

"I am well aware of that. I just need to be careful until you are able to track him down," stated Sherlock. He thought of some of the plans he already had in place

"I don't like playing this game, Sherlock."

If Sherlock didn't know better, he would have thought Mycroft sounded… nervous… concerned? Dismissing that thought, he spoke.

"It isn't a game. Not for me. Not anymore."

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, resting them gently against his lips.

"It is imperative that when you receive information, that you attempt to use John to get it to me. He needs to have it firmly planted in his mind that we are still at odds with one another. This cooperation for his mission to Afghanistan needs to become, in his mind, something that occurs quite rarely."

Before Mycroft could say anything, Sherlock looked at his brother sternly. "It's for the best. You know that. Once Moriarty uses that information against me, John's reaction will be more authentic."

"I know, Sherlock. I don't like it, but I know." Mycroft shook his head slightly, "Besides, it is a rare occurrence for us that our goals are aligned enough for us to work together."

Sherlock huffed his agreement.

Mycroft stood smoothly, reaching for his overcoat he'd draped over a desk chair. "I'll be on my way, then. Take care of him, Sherlock."

"Good-bye, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a hint of impatience in his voice.

He heard his brother sigh one more time, then turn and walk down the stairs. When he heard the front door shut, he allowed himself to relax.

Sherlock shook his head, thinking about his brother's last words. Of course he was going to take care of John. That was why he told Mycroft to give Moriarty the information he wanted. If he could keep Moriarty's attention focused on him, he hoped it would keep John out of the line of fire.

Delegating the information from Mycroft to a back corner of his mind to sort through, Sherlock concentrated on the present and difficulty of next few days. Before anything else, he needed to help John get sorted.

Standing, he grabbed the blanket off the back of John's chair. Wrapping himself in it, he laid down on the sofa to get what sleep he could while it was still quiet, unwilling to retreat to his room in case John needed something.

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_A/N: Just so you know, there will be one more chapter/epilogue to tie up some loose ends. Thank you for your comments! I appreciate them more than you know! :) Blessings and please read and review._


	5. Epilogue

_A/N: Sorry for the delay everyone. I have a horrible head cold, so I slowed down on the editing. Please let me know if there are any glaring errors! Hope you enjoy!_

_Also: At the end look for a timeline that I promised, but didn't want to put at the beginning as it would create spoilers for the story. A less detailed timeline should appear on my profile within a few days._

* * *

Two weeks later, John's leg was healed enough that he hardly limped. His ribs and shoulder were still quite tender though. He had to be careful how much he used his left arm as its range of motion was limited. However, John could still run and he could handle his gun because he shot right handed. Which was good, as he'd already chased Sherlock around the city after a criminal a few days ago.

The nightmares had eased and were less frequent, as well. Sherlock had been extremely attentive, and had tried multiple techniques to either wake him up, or ease him into a more restful sleep.

After his first marathon of nearly fifteen hours of sleep, John had barely managed to stay up for four hours before he was nodding in his chair. Sherlock sent him to bed, but after two extremely vivid and realistic nightmares, one of which he started throwing object across the room, he meekly allowed Sherlock to guide him firmly downstairs. Once he'd calmed down, Sherlock made sure he took more pain medication, then led him through the kitchen to his own room.

John had balked at first, but Sherlock insisted that being in a different room, with different surroundings and smells might make a difference. Sherlock firmly planted himself in a chair by the foot of the bed, pointed at the bed and told him to sleep. Reluctantly, John relaxed back against the pillows and pulled Sherlock's duvet up under his chin, surprising himself with how quickly he was able to fall asleep. Amazingly, it had worked and John had slept for nearly ten hours with no memory of any dreams.

The next time he started feeling tired, John insisted on going back to his own room. Sherlock sighed and followed him upstairs a few minutes later, carrying the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the sofa. He spread it on top of John's duvet, and pulled it up, tucking it around his shoulders. Sitting up in the midst of a nightmare, feeling the rough wool under his hands and smelling the familiar scents of home helped him come back to reality a little faster.

Each time he woke, Sherlock was there, waiting until John breathed his name. Then he would sit next to him on the bed, offering a solid presence or awkward hug until the fear racing through him eased.

John would have felt ashamed except, in the morning, Sherlock never mentioned the night before, and didn't treat him any differently. Eventually John settled down, feeling more secure in the knowledge that when he woke, Sherlock would be there, one way or another.

Lately, when his dreams started to be filled with images of blood and water, tunnels and insurgents bearing knives, sweet violin music would begin to weave through the images and slowly draw him out of those and away into a more restful sleep.

Without hardly a word, Sherlock had cared for John and met his needs, without being too overbearing or demanding. And he still managed to be his same annoying self during the day. John didn't know how he did it, or what had suddenly made him more perceptive (at least with John… he still wasn't any better with Lestrade or his team), but he was grateful.

oOOooOOooOOo

Now, John stood waiting impatiently in Heathrow, waiting for a plane to taxi to the gate in front of him.

His left arm wrapped comfortingly around a petite brunette next to him. With his right arm, he supported a dark blonde toddler perched on his hip. She was clinging to a stuffed bear and resting her head on his shoulder. Next to the brunette, a dark haired young man, in his mid-teens stood with affected nonchalance, given away by the way his brows knit together and his hands clenching into fists at his side.

Finally the plane arrived at the gate and the doors opened for the passengers to disembark. An elderly couple emerged first, one using a walker, the other a cane. As they cleared the doorway, John could see someone pushing a wheel chair.

There.

Finally.

John's shoulders sagged in relief when he saw his friend's familiar face and dark brown eyes searching the crowd for them.

Hearing a stifled sob next to him, John gave the woman's shoulder a squeeze, saying "Go ahead Vicki, go to him."

Without another word, she nearly ran, and fell to her knees next to the wheelchair. She tenderly, gently wrapped her arms around her husband's wounded body, hiding her tears in the front of his uniform shirt.

The young man made a move to follow her, when John put a hand on his arm.

"Give them just a moment, Will?"

Will nodded, waiting tensely next to John. John looked at him, hardly believing this young man was as tall as him already. He lifted his hand to Will's shoulder, and was rewarded by a shaky sigh, as he leaned, ever so slightly, into John's hand.

"I didn't expect to see so many… bandages," Will said.

John knew that even though this was Will's father, he wanted and needed to know the truth.

"He had multiple fractures in his arm, one that required a surgery over there. Then his leg needed a plate in it for one of the fractures, and will need at least one more here to make sure it's done right. He has broken ribs too. Those are the major things, but obviously there are more that we'll talk about later." John looked at Will's little sister in his arms, and Will nodded his understanding.

John watched Will as he took another breath, steadying himself.

"I know it's hard to see your Dad like this, Will. But he survived. We were able to locate and rescue him. He made it through multiple surgeries. He's home now and safe, and he _will _heal. Especially now that he has his family around him."

Will nodded, then started forward as his mom released her hold and stood, walking beside the wheelchair as they came closer to where they were waiting.

Will stopped awkwardly in front of the wheelchair, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His father said something John couldn't hear, but as Will knelt down he heard his broken, "Dad," as he rested his head on his father's shoulder allowing the tears to finally fall.

John waited with a gentle smile on his face, still holding the little girl in his arms until Will stood up. Setting her on her feet, he said to her, "Marie, go over to your daddy."

Marie looked up at John with wide eyes, and when he smiled at her, she gave a little nod and said, "Kay, Uncle John." She ran over and her father broke into a wide smile, despite the tears on his face. She got as close as she could to the man in the wheelchair, as he stroked her face and hair with his bandaged hand. She said something to him, and he gave a watery laugh, taking the proffered teddy bear from her outstretched hands, tucking it in securely next to him in the chair.

Then his eyes moved from his family, to seek the face of his friend.

John could feel a lump grow in his throat, seeing the family together, remembering all too clearly how they very barely avoided meeting a coffin rather than a wheelchair.

Vicki took control of the wheelchair from the flight attendant, and wheeled her husband closer to John.

Wiping the smile off his face, along with his tears, the soldier straightened as best he could in the wheelchair, snapping a salute. "Captain Watson."

Returning the salute with one of his own, John allowed himself to crack a smile, which his friend returned.

"Captain Murray."

"John." Bill Murray's smile widened and John drew closer. As Bill reached out, John wrapped an arm gingerly around him, well aware of his friend's extensive injuries.

"My God, Bill, you made it," he breathed. "For once, I am actually glad you are such a stubborn git." Even though he'd seen him earlier, he'd hardly dared to believe he was safe until he was back in London.

They both chuckled as they pulled apart, unashamed of the tears on their faces.

"It's good to see you again, John," Bill said. He looked briefly around the large, busy airport. "But, why do there appear to be undercover agents scattered all over?"

"Seriously?" John froze and his eyes narrowed.

_Uh oh, whoever is behind this is in trouble now. I've seen that look before._

Bill smirked to himself as John wiped his face before he turned abruptly and walked over to the nearest CCTV camera.

He stood there and pointedly glared into it. Within moments, Bill noticed the agents slowly withdrawing and leaving their vicinity. He shook his head as John walked back to them and they started moving to leave the airport as well.

"What was that about? Who were they?"

John snorted. "My flatmate's big brother is a little over protective of him. It seems that over protectiveness extends to me, as well."

"Your flatmate… Sherlock Holmes?"

"The one and only," John smiled.

"Where is he?" questioned Bill. He'd expected to see him appear next to John as soon as he had greeted his family.

"I sort of made a deal with him. He practically threw a fit because he wanted to be here. I reminded him that there would be a considerable amount of sentiment. He was almost convinced, then attempted to tell me it wouldn't be a problem." John sighed. "The only reason he didn't come is because I told him he could meet you once you recovered a bit more. And… I might have threatened him with certain death if he interfered."

"He didn't like that, did he?" laughed Bill.

"Not one bit," John smiled back. "So far, I am very, very surprised at his restraint."

"Why would he be so keen on meeting me? It's not like I've done anything special." Bill looked at John with confusion evident on his face.

"Oh don't start, Bill or I'll start listing things," threatened John.

Vicki giggled when she saw Bill roll his eyes.

"Like I told you before, Sherlock seems to have taken an immense interest in my history the past four or five weeks." John suppressed a shudder, thinking of all that had happened during that time.

"You are part of my past, so by extension, he is interested in you, as well," John stated with finality in his tone.

Bill knew what that tone meant too. However, he also knew how to break through that. Once he got settled and rested up a bit, he and John were going to sit down and have a proper talk.

John was thankful when they reached the entrance to the airport. Getting through the doors, he closed his eyes momentarily and sighed, shaking his head. He should have known better.

Bill's jaw dropped for just as second upon seeing the long, sleek black car idling at the curb. Waiting outside the car, leaning against the door, was none other than the world's only consulting detective.

"Sherlock, I thought I told you…" John started to say, exasperation evident in his tone.

Sherlock scanned everyone, his eyes drinking in details only he could see.

"Sherlock," warned John. "No. Just no. Keep your observations to yourself."

A small smirk curling the corners of his lips, Sherlock turned and opened the door of the car. John could see there was enough room for all of them to get inside.

Sherlock gestured for Vicki, Will and Marie to get in. They looked at John with questions in their eyes, but slid into the car at his nod.

As John looked at him, puzzled with his uncharacteristic restraint, Sherlock walked around him to the wheelchair Bill was in. Very gently, he maneuvered the wheelchair around so John could more easily help Bill into the waiting car.

John caught Sherlock's eye, communicating his thanks wordlessly before he focused his attention on the man in the wheelchair.

"Come on, Bill. Let's get you situated." As Bill started to shift in the chair to attempt to help, John pulled back and glared at him. "Keep your arm tucked in and for goodness sake, let me do the hard work. It's going to hurt enough as it is. Don't be stubborn and make it worse!"

John heard Sherlock stifle a snort behind him, but chose to ignore it. John did the best he could to make it as painless as possible, but there was no way to keep from jarring Bill's injuries as he did the transfer. Even with Vicki helping, Bill was left gray-faced and breathless, his forehead and bangs damp with a cold sweat.

John felt Bill's pulse racing far too fast for his liking, and knew, without having to ask, how much pain Bill was in. Sherlock had disappeared around the side of the car with the wheelchair but reappeared momentarily with John's medical bag.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I was in such a rush to get here, I didn't even think about needing it." John knew Sherlock could hear the relief in his voice.

"I'll meet you back at the flat, when you are able to return. There is an overnight bag in the boot, should you require it," Sherlock said softly to John. Leaning in the door, he directed his attention to Bill and Vicki where they sat next to each other.

"I am pleased to have had the opportunity to see you, however briefly. Don't be too stubborn to let John look after you, Captain Murray. He is quite proficient in overriding all protests to the contrary, as I have learned the hard way." Giving a small, but genuine smile, he said, "Good day."

With that, Sherlock straightened back up and nodded at John.

"Sherlock…"

"The car and driver are at your disposal until you decide to return to Baker Street."

"But Sherlock," John sputtered. He stepped away from the car and reached out, catching the sleeve of his coat. "Why… what's all this about?" he finally got out. "This is unusual, even for you. You can't tell me that you're doing this just to meet Bill, despite my protests."

Sherlock turned around. His eyes were alive with unfamiliar, unexpected intensity… and emotion.

"It was to meet Bill despite your protests." Sherlock smirked a little before he glanced away at the crowd moving around them. "I can't imagine getting him home in a taxi would have been very conducive to his health."

When he looked back at John, his eyes were shuttered, and John was unable to read anything.

"Go take care of your friend and his family. I will see you when you get back."

John must have imagined it, but he thought Sherlock's voice sounded a bit strained when he said "friend." _He couldn't possibly be concerned that now that Bill is home, that… Not after our conversation a couple of weeks ago. _John shook his head, dismissing the thought.

Sherlock gave John one more piercing glance, no doubt reading his thoughts, and then turned abruptly and disappeared down the crowded street.

Shaking his head in bemusement, he climbed into the car, shutting the door. He was warmed by Sherlock's thoughtfulness. And also a little worried. Though things had been getting back to normal and Sherlock had been giving him space when he'd needed it, this… this was definitely a step above and beyond for Sherlock.

Giving the driver the Murrays' address, John looked at his friend sitting slumped against the seat, his eyes closed. The doctor in him taking over, he noted the pain so evident in Bill's face, and Vicki's worry as she watched her husband.

He opened his bag, and withdrew a syringe.

"No, John. I don't…"

John cut him off before he could finish. "Bill you heard what Sherlock said, let me take care of you for once. This will be just enough to get you home and settled. We'll pull out the big guns later."

Bill just sighed and resigned himself to being fussed over for a while, not that he would mind it too much, after everything he'd gone through.

John watched his friend's face relax as the morphine took hold. He smiled at Vicki as he disposed of the needle and syringe in his bag, and settled back in his seat for the drive.

He pulled out his phone and started a text message.

**Thank you for arranging this, Sherlock. J**

…

**How many cases is this going to cost us with Mycroft? J**

**Three. S**

…

**Four. S**

**Is there anything else I should know? Anything else we owe him? J**

**I don't want to talk about it. S**

**Really? J**

…

**Sherlock? J**

**Not now. S**

…

**You're welcome, John. S**

John put his phone away with a sigh and a smile. Looking across the car at his friend, he was overwhelmed. He couldn't believe the amazing luck they'd had.

He turned and blindly looked out the window as they traveled through London and headed to the outskirts of town.

oOOooOOooOOo

**Sherlock? You awake? J**

…

…

**What are you doing up so late? S**

**I haven't been able to sleep. J**

…

**Besides, I'm giving Vicki a chance to rest. She will need to take care of Bill on her own tomorrow night. I'll be coming home later tomorrow afternoon. J**

**You will? This is only the second night you've been there. S**

**Bill's really doing pretty well. He needed to talk. I needed to keep his pain managed. Now that both are accomplished I can come home. J**

…

**He will be seeing his own doctor on Monday. Vicki was a nurse and can handle his care tomorrow afternoon and night. J**

**I didn't anticipate you would return so quickly. S**

**Do you not want me to? J**

**No! I mean, I do… want you back here… that is. S**

John smiled. He loved that he could tell Sherlock was fumbling for words, even through his texts.

**So, what is really keeping you awake? S**

…

**Nightmares again? S**

…

**John? Was that one of the things I shouldn't have asked? S**

**No. It's fine. I… listening to Bill heightened my own nightmares a bit. J**

**I woke myself up once in the middle of the night last night, and decided I'd better not go back to sleep unless I wanted to wake the whole house. J**

**Ah. Well. Most likely a sound decision. S**

**How did you get through today? S**

**I took a nap for a few hours. As long as it's light out, I seem to be able to keep from dreaming too much. J**

**Maybe it's the noise of people moving around the house. It might keep you more grounded, even in your sleep. S**

**You might have something there. J**

John set his phone on the arm of the chair next to him and tried to read. Eventually he gave up and rested the book on his lap, his head leaning against the back of his chair as he looked out the window. After hearing all Bill had gone through, and thinking through the past weeks since Baskerville, John decided he was really looking forward to returning home.

He smiled slightly at the thought. Home. His new normal. Living with the world's only Consulting Detective, solving crimes together. He wouldn't trade it for the world.

After a couple hour break, John's phone pinged with an incoming text.

**John? S**

**Yes? J**

**Did I wake you? S**

**Nope. J**

**What are you doing? S**

**Reading and checking on Bill every couple of hours. J**

**Oh. S**

**Did you need something? J**

…

**Sherlock? J**

**I'm fine. S**

**What's wrong? J**

…

**Tell me or I'm going to call you. J**

**I'm fine. It's all fine. S**

**I will send Greg over there, or call Mrs. Hudson… J**

…

**I'm not kidding. If I call and you don't answer… J**

**NO! I said I was fine. S**

…

**Fine. It's too quiet. S**

**Are you bored or lonely? J**

…

**Sherlock? J**

… **both… S**

**It's ok. I am too. J**

…

…

**Even there with Bill and his family? S**

**Yes. I told you earlier home is Baker Street, with my mad flatmate and friend. J**

**Oh. S**

…

**Thank you. S**

John raised his eyebrows at the screen on his mobile. _Did Sherlock Holmes just say 'thank you?'_

**Sherlock, if you don't have a case, try to get some sleep. J**

**I suppose. Only if you will be home tomorrow night. S**

**I will be. I promise. J**

John smiled again to himself, imagining Sherlock pacing the sitting room, worrying and driving himself insane. He was like a little child in some ways, needing constant reassurances. John found he didn't mind providing them.

oOOooOOooOOo

Later the next day, Sherlock sat in his chair across from John. He was trying to look through a cold case file, but found himself unable to concentrate. His eyes kept straying to study John's face and posture as he settled in to read a book.

He was relieved to have him home again. Sherlock had watched his reunion with Bill Murray and his family. He'd even made it easy for John to go home with them, but as they'd pulled away from the airport together, Sherlock felt something inside him sink. Logically, he knew that Murray had needed John, but he'd been extremely relieved when John texted him that he'd be home Sunday night.

He had so many questions for John. He wanted to know what he'd talked with Murray about that he hadn't shared with Sherlock yet. He wanted to know if he was right… that during that six month gap in his service records, John had been captured like Murray and… tortured. The nightmares John had when he'd gotten home from the rescue mission, along with the things John would and wouldn't say all pointed in that direction.

John glanced up at him from his book, a knowing smile on his face. Sherlock looked back down at the file in his lap, not fooling John one bit.

"No questions right now, ok Sherlock?" John requested, reading him perfectly.

Sherlock stifled a sigh of frustration, though by John's snort, he hadn't done very well with that either. He rolled his eyes, still pretending to look at the file on his lap. When he looked back up, John had gone back to reading, his posture relaxed and his face open and calm in the firelight.

Sherlock studied John a couple of minutes longer. He detected nothing that hinted at deception on John's part. He was content. John was able to unplug from all that had happened. So, Sherlock forced himself to let go of the rest of the tension he'd been holding in. It was distracting.

Besides, he had a cold case to look at. Flipping through the paperwork and pictures with new energy, he suddenly spotted it. Jumping to his feet with a shout of triumph, he threw the file on the floor minus the pictures and spread them out all over the desk.

"Sherlock!" John griped at him. "Stop bounding around! And stop throwing those photos. I don't want to have to clean it all up when you're done."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him as he texted Lestrade. When he didn't answer his text immediately, he dialed his number, grumbling.

"Lestrade! It's the cat! What? No… no! The Porter cold case. The maid has a cat. Of course it's important. There is cat hair all over the crime scene. No. Fine! I'll bring it by in the morning."

Dropping his phone on the desk in disgust, Sherlock flopped back into his chair.

"Greg didn't think he needed to know the information at ten at night?" John asked.

"No, he said it could wait until the morning since it had waited nearly eight years."

At John's laugh, Sherlock glared at him. "I just solved the case for him, and now I have to wait until tomorrow!"

Silence fell in the room as John chuckled and settled back into his book. It was broken only by the sounds of a crackling fire, an occasional rasp of a page being turned, and the muted hum of traffic outside. Sherlock sprawled in his chair, his eyes half closed. He consciously put aside all his other concerns for the time being. He could pick those up tomorrow.

For once, Sherlock let himself sink into the peace of the moment and actually enjoy it.

oOOooOOooOOo

He didn't know that in just over a week, Moriarty would close his web around him.

He didn't know he would end up on the roof of St. Bart's, forced to say goodbye to his first and only best friend.

He didn't know he would have three years of hell to endure before he would finally find _himself_ returning home.

* * *

_a/n: Below is the promised timeline. I will only do Series 2 and later, as all my stories fall in that area. It will have some extra details in there. Be aware, I actually looked at a 2012 calendar, and between that, John's blog (by BBC) and a friend's timeline (Lady Sam Mallory) put this all together._

_**The Hound of Baskerville (early March 2012)  
**_

_** Break-ins and Moriarty Trial (Early April, 2012) - as shown in The Reichenbach Fall**_

_Afghanistan Comes Home __ (April 23-26, 2012)_

_Returning Home __ (April 28-June 3, 2012)_

_ ***Captain Evans' funeral (April 28, 2012)_

_ ***John in Afghanistan (May 3-18, 2012)_

_ ***Murray comes home (June 1, 2012)_

_ ***John stays weekend with Murray Family (June 1-3, 2012)_

**_The Reichenbach Fall (June 2012)_**

**_***Called in on Kidnapping case (June 10, 2012)_**

**_***Sherlock jumped (June 12, 2012)_**

_In Between (June 12, 2012-August 2015)_

_Power of Music (January 2012)_

_I hope that makes sense. If you have any questions, just PM me and I will be glad to answer them! :)_


End file.
